The Project Gutenberg EBook of Autobiography of a Pocket-Hankerchief, by
James Fenimore Cooper
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Autobiography of a Pocket-Hankerchief
Author: James Fenimore Cooper
Posting Date: March 1, 2009 [EBook #2329]
Release Date: September, 2000
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUTOBIOGRAPHY--POCKET HANDKERCHIEF ***
Produced by Hugh C. MacDougal. HTML version by Al Haines.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF

by

James Fenimore Cooper

{This text has been transcribed, corrected, and annotated from its
original periodical appearance in Graham's Magazine (Jan.-Apr. 1843),
by Hugh C. MacDougall, Secretary of the James Fenimore Cooper Society
(jfcooper@wpe.com), who welcomes corrections or emendations.}

{Introductory Note: "Autobiography of a Pocket-Handkerchief" was James
Fenimore Cooper's first serious attempt at magazine writing, and
Graham's Magazine would publish other contributions from him over the
next few years, notably a series of biographic sketches of American
naval officers, and the novel "Jack Tier; or The Florida Reef"
(1846-1848). Though hardly one of Cooper's greatest works,
"Autobiography" remains significant because of: (1) its unusual
narrator—an embroidered pocket-handkerchief—that is surely the first
of its kind; (2) its critique of economic exploitation in France and of
the crass commercial climate of ante-bellum America; and, (3) its
constant exploration of American social, moral, and cultural issues.
This said, it must be admitted that the telling of Adrienne's sad
plight in Paris becomes a bit overwrought; and that the inept wooing of
Mary Monson by the social cad Tom Thurston is so drawn out and
sarcastic as to suggest snobbery on Cooper's part as well as on that of
his elite hanky. Finally, the heroine-handkerchief's protracted failure
to recognize her maker, when she has proved so sensitive to her
surroundings in every other fashion, is simply unbelievable. Still,
there is enough to reward today's reader, if only in the story's unique
"point of view" and in the recognizable foibles of Henry Halfacre and
his social-climbing daughter.}

{The text is taken from the novelette's original appearance in Graham's
Magazine, Vol. XXII, pp. 1-18, 89-102, 158-167, 205-213 (January-April)
1843. "Autobiography" was simultaneously issued as a separate number of
Brother Jonathan magazine (March 22, 1843), under the title "Le
Mouchoir: An Autobiographical Romance." Also in 1843 it was published
in London by Richard Bentley as "The French Governess; or, the
Embroidered Handkerchief." A German translation quickly followed, as
"Die franzosischer Erzieheren, oder das gestickte Taschentuch"
(Stuttgart: Lieschning, 1845, reprinted 1849). Interest in the book
then lapsed. The Brother Jonathan and Bentley editions divided the
story into 18 chapters (as we have in this transcription).}

{At the end of the century a limited scholarly edition (500 copies)
appeared, edited by Walter Lee Brown, the first scholarly treatment of
any Cooper work, noting variations between the original manuscript and
the various published texts: "Autobiography of a Pocket-Handkerchief"
(Evanston, IL: The Golden-Booke Press, 1897). Another edition,
unannotated and taken from the Graham's Magazine version, was printed
half a century later as a Festschrift (farewell testimonial) for
retiring Cooper scholar Gregory Lansing Paine of the University of
North Carolina: "Autobiography of A Pocket-Handkerchief" (Chapel Hill:
Privately printed, 1949). "Autobiography" was never included in
published collections of James Fenimore Cooper's "Works," and this
scarcity is an important reason for making it available to scholars
everywhere through the Gutenberg Project.}

{Because of the limitations imposed by the Gutenberg Project format,
italics used by Cooper to indicate foreign words are ignored, as are
accents; while italics Cooper used for emphasis are usually indicated
by ALL CAPITALS. Unless otherwise indicated, translations are from the
French. The spelling and punctuation of the Graham's Magazine
periodical text have generally been followed, except that certain
inconsistent contractions (e.g., "do n't" or "do'nt" for "don't") have
been silently regularized.}

{I have annotated the edition—identified by {curly brackets}—to
translate most of the French words and expressions which Cooper
frequently employs, to define occasional now-obsolete English words,
and to identify historical names and other references. Cooper
frequently alludes, in the beginning of the work, to events and persons
involved in the French Revolution of 1830, which he had witnessed while
living in Paris, and about which the beginning of the plot revolves.}

CHAPTER I.

Certain moral philosophers, with a due disdain of the flimsy
foundations of human pride, have shown that every man is equally
descended from a million of ancestors, within a given number of
generations; thereby demonstrating that no prince exists who does not
participate in the blood of some beggar, or any beggar who does not
share in the blood of princes. Although favored by a strictly vegetable
descent myself, the laws of nature have not permitted me to escape from
the influence of this common rule. The earliest accounts I possess of
my progenitors represent them as a goodly growth of the Linum
Usitatissimum, divided into a thousand cotemporaneous plants,
singularly well conditioned, and remarkable for an equality that
renders the production valuable. In this particular, then, I may be
said to enjoy a precedency over the Bourbons, themselves, who now
govern no less than four different states of Europe, and who have sat
on thrones these thousand years.

{Linum Usitatissimum = Linum usitatissimum (Cooper's capitalization
varies) is the botanical name for the variety of flax from which linen
is made}

While our family has followed the general human law in the matter just
mentioned, it forms a marked exception to the rule that so absolutely
controls all of white blood, on this continent, in what relates to
immigration and territorial origin. When the American enters on the
history of his ancestors, he is driven, after some ten or twelve
generations at most, to seek refuge in a country in Europe; whereas
exactly the reverse is the case with us, our most remote extraction
being American, while our more recent construction and education have
taken place in Europe. When I speak of the "earliest accounts I possess
of my progenitors," authentic information is meant only; for, like
other races, we have certain dark legends that might possibly carry us
back again to the old world in quest of our estates and privileges.
But, in writing this history, it has been my determination from the
first, to record nothing but settled truths, and to reject everything
in the shape of vague report or unauthenticated anecdote. Under these
limitations, I have ever considered my family as American by origin,
European by emigration, and restored to its paternal soil by the
mutations and calculations of industry and trade.

The glorious family of cotemporaneous plants from which I derive my
being, grew in a lovely vale of Connecticut, and quite near to the
banks of the celebrated river of the same name. This renders us
strictly Yankee in our origin, an extraction of which I find all who
enjoy it fond of boasting. It is the only subject of self-felicitation
with which I am acquainted that men can indulge in, without awakening
the envy of their fellow-creatures; from which I infer it is at least
innocent, if not commendable.

We have traditions among us of the enjoyments of our predecessors, as
they rioted in the fertility of their cis-atlantic field; a happy
company of thriving and luxuriant plants. Still, I shall pass them
over, merely remarking that a bountiful nature has made such provision
for the happiness of all created things as enables each to rejoice in
its existence, and to praise, after its fashion and kind, the divine
Being to which it owes its creation.

{cis-atlantic = this side of the Atlantic (Latin)}

In due time, the field in which my forefathers grew was gathered, the
seed winnowed from the chaff and collected in casks, when the whole
company was shipped for Ireland. Now occurred one of those chances
which decide the fortunes of plants, as well as those of men, giving me
a claim to Norman, instead of Milesian descent. The embarkation, or
shipment of my progenitors, whichever may be the proper expression,
occurred in the height of the last general war, and, for a novelty, it
occurred in an English ship. A French privateer captured the vessel on
her passage home, the flaxseed was condemned and sold, my ancestors
being transferred in a body to the ownership of a certain agriculturist
in the neighborhood of Evreux, who dealt largely in such articles.
There have been evil disposed vegetables that have seen fit to reproach
us with this sale as a stigma on our family history, but I have ever
considered it myself as a circumstance of which one has no more reason
to be ashamed than a D'Uzes has to blush for the robberies of a baron
of the middle ages. Each is an incident in the progress of
civilization; the man and the vegetable alike taking the direction
pointed out by Providence for the fulfilment of his or its destiny.

{Milesian = slang for Irish, from Milesius, mythical Spanish conqueror
of Ireland; Evreux = town in Normandy, France; a D'Uzes = a member of
an ancient noble family in southern France}

Plants have sensation as well as animals. The latter, however, have no
consciousness anterior to their physical births, and very little,
indeed, for some time afterwards; whereas a different law prevails as
respects us; our mental conformation being such as to enable us to
refer our moral existence to a period that embraces the experience,
reasoning and sentiments of several generations. As respects logical
inductions, for instance, the linum usitatissimum draws as largely on
the intellectual acquisitions of the various epochas that belonged to
the three or four parent stems which preceded it, as on its own. In a
word, that accumulated knowledge which man inherits by means of books,
imparted and transmitted information, schools, colleges, and
universities, we obtain through more subtle agencies that are
incorporated with our organic construction, and which form a species of
hereditary mesmerism; a vegetable clairvoyance that enables us to see
with the eyes, hear with the ears, and digest with the understandings
of our predecessors.

{epochas = archaic Latinized spelling of epochs}

Some of the happiest moments of my moral existence were thus obtained,
while our family was growing in the fields of Normandy. It happened
that a distinguished astronomer selected a beautiful seat, that was
placed on the very margin of our position, as a favorite spot for his
observations and discourses; from a recollection of the latter of
which, in particular, I still derive indescribable satisfaction. It
seems as only yesterday—it is in fact fourteen long, long years—that
I heard him thus holding forth to his pupils, explaining the marvels of
the illimitable void, and rendering clear to my understanding the vast
distance that exists between the Being that created all things and the
works of his hands. To those who live in the narrow circle of human
interests and human feelings, there ever exists, unheeded, almost
unnoticed, before their very eyes, the most humbling proofs of their
own comparative insignificance in the scale of creation, which, in the
midst of their admitted mastery over the earth and all it contains, it
would be well for them to consider, if they would obtain just views of
what they are and what they were intended to be.

I think I can still hear this learned and devout man—for his soul was
filled with devotion to the dread Being that could hold a universe in
subjection to His will—dwelling with delight on all the discoveries
among the heavenly bodies, that the recent improvements in science and
mechanics have enabled the astronomers to make. Fortunately, he gave
his discourses somewhat of the progressive character of lectures,
leading his listeners on, as it might be step by step, in a way to
render all easy to the commonest understanding. Thus it was, I first
got accurate notions of the almost inconceivable magnitude of space, to
which, indeed, it is probable there are no more positive limits than
there are a beginning and an end to eternity! Can these wonders be, I
thought—and how pitiful in those who affect to reduce all things to
the level of their own powers of comprehension, and their own
experience in practice! Let them exercise their sublime and boasted
reason, I said to myself, in endeavoring to comprehend infinity in any
thing, and we will note the result! If it be in space, we shall find
them setting bounds to their illimitable void, until ashamed of the
feebleness of their first effort, it is renewed, again and again, only
to furnish new proofs of the insufficiency of any of earth, even to
bring within the compass of their imaginations truths that all their
experiments, inductions, evidence and revelations compel them to admit.

"The moon has no atmosphere," said our astronomer one day, "and if
inhabited at all, it must be by beings constructed altogether
differently from ourselves. Nothing that has life, either animal or
vegetable as we know them, can exist without air, and it follows that
nothing having life, according to our views of it, can exist in the
moon:—or, if any thing having life do exist there, it must be under
such modifications of all our known facts, as to amount to something
like other principles of being." "One side of that planet feels the
genial warmth of the sun for a fortnight, while the other is for the
same period without it," he continued. "That which feels the sun must
be a day, of a heat so intense as to render it insupportable to us,
while the opposite side on which the rays of the sun do not fall, must
be masses of ice, if water exist there to be congealed. But the moon
has no seas, so far as we can ascertain; its surface representing one
of strictly volcanic origin, the mountains being numerous to a
wonderful degree. Our instruments enable us to perceive craters, with
the inner cones so common to all our own volcanoes, giving reason to
believe in the activity of innumerable burning hills at some remote
period. It is scarcely necessary to say, that nothing we know could
live in the moon under these rapid and extreme transitions of heat and
cold, to say nothing of the want of atmospheric air." I listened to
this with wonder, and learned to be satisfied with my station. Of what
moment was it to me, in filling the destiny of the linum usitatissimum,
whether I grew in a soil a little more or a little less fertile;
whether my fibres attained the extremest fineness known to the
manufacturer, or fell a little short of this excellence. I was but a
speck among a myriad of other things produced by the hand of the
Creator, and all to conduce to his own wise ends and unequaled glory.
It was my duty to live my time, to be content, and to proclaim the
praise of God within the sphere assigned to me. Could men or plants but
once elevate their thoughts to the vast scale of creation, it would
teach them their own insignificance so plainly, would so unerringly
make manifest the futility of complaints, and the immense disparity
between time and eternity, as to render the useful lesson of
contentment as inevitable as it is important.

I remember that our astronomer, one day, spoke of the nature and
magnitude of the sun. The manner that he chose to render clear to the
imagination of his hearers some just notions of its size, though so
familiar to astronomers, produced a deep and unexpected impression on
me. "Our instruments," he said, "are now so perfect and powerful, as to
enable us to ascertain many facts of the deepest interest, with near
approaches to positive accuracy. The moon being the heavenly body much
the nearest to us, of course we see farther into its secrets than into
those of any other planet. We have calculated its distance from us at
237,000 miles. Of course by doubling this distance, and adding to it
the diameter of the earth, we get the diameter of the circle, or orbit,
in which the moon moves around the earth. In other words the diameter
of this orbit is about 480,000 miles. Now could the sun be brought in
contact with this orbit, and had the latter solidity to mark its
circumference, it would be found that this circumference would include
but a little more than half the surface of one side of the sun, the
diameter of which orb is calculated to be 882,000 miles! The sun is one
million three hundred and eighty-four thousand four hundred and
seventy-two times larger than the earth. Of the substance of the sun it
is not so easy to speak. Still it is thought, though it is not certain,
that we occasionally see the actual surface of this orb, an advantage
we do not possess as respects any other of the heavenly bodies, with
the exception of the moon and Mars. The light and warmth of the sun
probably exist in its atmosphere, and the spots which are so often seen
on this bright orb, are supposed to be glimpses of the solid mass of
the sun itself, that are occasionally obtained through openings in this
atmosphere. At all events, this is the more consistent way of
accounting for the appearance of these spots. You will get a better
idea of the magnitude of the sidereal system, however, by remembering
that, in comparison with it, the distances of our entire solar system
are as mere specks. Thus, while our own change of positions is known to
embrace an orbit of about 200,000,000 of miles, it is nevertheless so
trifling as to produce no apparent change of position in thousands of
the fixed stars that are believed to be the suns of other systems. Some
conjecture even that all these suns, with their several systems, our
own included, revolve around a common centre that is invisible to us,
but which is the actual throne of God; the comets that we note and
measure being heavenly messengers, as it might be, constantly passing
from one of these families of worlds to another."

I remember that one of the astronomer's pupils asked certain
explanations here, touching the planets that it was thought, or rather
known, that we could actually see, and those of which the true surfaces
were believed to be concealed from us. "I have told you," answered the
man of science, "that they are the Moon, Mars and the Sun. Both Venus
and Mercury are nearer to us than Mars, but their relative proximities
to the sun have some such effect on their surfaces, as placing an
object near a strong light is known to have on its appearance. We are
dazzled, to speak popularly, and cannot distinguish minutely. With Mars
it is different. If this planet has any atmosphere at all, it is one of
no great density, and its orbit being without our own, we can easily
trace on its surface the outlines of seas and continents. It is even
supposed that the tinge of the latter is that of reddish sand-stone,
like much of that known in our own world, but more decided in tint,
while two brilliant white spots, at its poles, are thought to be light
reflected from the snows of those regions, rendered more conspicuous,
or disappearing, as they first emerge from a twelvemonths' winter, or
melt in a summer of equal duration."

I could have listened forever to this astronomer, whose lectures so
profoundly taught lessons of humility to the created, and which were so
replete with silent eulogies on the power of the Creator! What was it
to me whether I were a modest plant, of half a cubit in stature, or the
proudest oak of the forest—man or vegetable? My duty was clearly to
glorify the dread Being who had produced all these marvels, and to
fulfil my time in worship, praise and contentment. It mattered not
whether my impressions were derived through organs called ears, and
were communicated by others called those of speech, or whether each
function was performed by means of sensations and agencies too subtle
to be detected by ordinary means. It was enough for me that I heard and
understood, and felt the goodness and glory of God. I may say that my
first great lessons in true philosophy were obtained in these lectures,
where I learned to distinguish between the finite and infinite, ceasing
to envy any, while I inclined to worship one. The benevolence of
Providence is extended to all its creatures, each receiving it in a
mode adapted to its own powers of improvement. My destiny being toward
a communion with man—or rather with woman—I have ever looked upon
these silent communications with the astronomer as so much preparatory
schooling, in order that my mind might be prepared for its own avenir,
and not be blinded by an undue appreciation of the importance of its
future associates. I know there are those who will sneer at the
supposition of a pocket-handkerchief possessing any mind, or esprit, at
all; but let such have patience and read on, when I hope it will be in
my power to demonstrate their error.

{avenir = future; esprit = soul or vital spirit}

CHAPTER II.

It is scarcely necessary to dwell on the scenes which occurred between
the time I first sprang from the earth and that in which I was
"pulled." The latter was a melancholy day for me, however, arriving
prematurely as regarded my vegetable state, since it was early
determined that I was to be spun into threads of unusual fineness. I
will only say, here, that my youth was a period of innocent pleasures,
during which my chief delight was to exhibit my simple but beautiful
flowers, in honor of the hand that gave them birth.

At the proper season, the whole field was laid low, when a scene of
hurry and confusion succeeded, to which I find it exceedingly painful
to turn in memory. The "rotting" was the most humiliating part of the
process which followed, though, in our case, this was done in clear
running water, and the "crackling" the most uncomfortable. Happily, we
were spared the anguish which ordinarily accompanies breaking on the
wheel, though we could not be said to have entirely escaped from all
its parade. Innocence was our shield, and while we endured some of the
disgrace that attaches to mere forms, we had that consolation of which
no cruelty or device can deprive the unoffending. Our sorrows were not
heightened by the consciousness of undeserving.

{"rotting" was... = to prepare flax for weaving as linen it is softened
(technically, "retted") by soaking in water, separated from its woody
fibers by beating ("scutched"—this seems to be what Cooper means by
"crackling"), and finally combed ("hatcheled")}

There is a period, which occurred between the time of being "hatcheled"
and that of being "woven," that it exceeds my powers to delineate. All
around me seemed to be in a state of inextricable confusion, out of
which order finally appeared in the shape of a piece of cambric, of a
quality that brought the workmen far and near to visit it. We were a
single family of only twelve, in this rare fabric, among which I
remember that I occupied the seventh place in the order of arrangement,
and of course in the order of seniority also. When properly folded, and
bestowed in a comfortable covering, our time passed pleasantly enough,
being removed from all disagreeable sights and smells, and lodged in a
place of great security, and indeed of honor, men seldom failing to
bestow this attention on their valuables.

{cambric = a fine white linen, originally from Cambray in Flanders}

It is out of my power to say precisely how long we remained in this
passive state in the hands of the manufacturer. It was some weeks,
however, if not months; during which our chief communications were on
the chances of our future fortunes. Some of our number were ambitious,
and would hear to nothing but the probability, nay, the certainty, of
our being purchased, as soon as our arrival in Paris should be made
known, by the king, in person, and presented to the dauphine, then the
first lady in France. The virtues of the Duchesse d'Angouleme were
properly appreciated by some of us, while I discovered that others
entertained for her any feelings but those of veneration and respect.
This diversity of opinion, on a subject of which one would think none
of us very well qualified to be judges, was owing to a circumstance of
such every-day occurrence as almost to supersede the necessity of
telling it, though the narrative would be rendered more complete by an
explanation.

{Dauphine = Crown Princess; Duchesse d'Angouleme = Marie Therese
Charlotte (1778-1851), the Dauphine, daughter of King Louis XVI and
wife of Louis Antoine of Artois, Duke of Angouleme, eldest son of King
Charles X—she lost her chance to become queen when her father-in-law
abdicated the French throne in 1830—Napoleon said of her that she was
"the only man in her family"}

It happened, while we lay in the bleaching grounds, that one half of
the piece extended into a part of the field that came under the
management of a legitimist, while the other invaded the dominions of a
liberal. Neither of these persons had any concern with us, we being
under the special superintendence of the head workman, but it was
impossible, altogether impossible, to escape the consequences of our
locales. While the legitimist read nothing but the Moniteur, the
liberal read nothing but Le Temps, a journal then recently established,
in the supposed interests of human freedom. Each of these individuals
got a paper at a certain hour, which he read with as much manner as he
could command, and with singular perseverance as related to the
difficulties to be overcome, to a clientele of bleachers, who reasoned
as he reasoned, swore by his oaths, and finally arrived at all his
conclusions. The liberals had the best of it as to numbers, and
possibly as to wit, the Moniteur possessing all the dullness of
official dignity under all the dynasties and ministries that have
governed France since its establishment. My business, however, is with
the effect produced on the pocket-handkerchiefs, and not with that
produced on the laborers. The two extremes were regular cotes gauches
and cotes droits. In other words, all at the right end of the piece
became devoted Bourbonists, devoutly believing that princes, who were
daily mentioned with so much reverence and respect, could be nothing
else but perfect; while the opposite extreme were disposed to think
that nothing good could come of Nazareth. In this way, four of our
number became decided politicians, not only entertaining a sovereign
contempt for the sides they respectively opposed, but beginning to feel
sensations approaching to hatred for each other.

{bleaching grounds = open spaces where newly woven linen is spread to
whiten in the sun; legitimist.... = this paragraph refers to
controversies, before the French "July Revolution" of 1830, between
rightist ("cote droit" = right side) legitimists, who read the official
"Moniteur" newspaper and supported the absolutist Bourbon monarchy of
King Charles X, and leftist ("cote gauche" = left side) liberals, who
read "Le Temps" and argued for reform or revolution; "nothing good
could come of Nazareth" = from the Bible, John, I, 46: "Can any good
thing come out of Nazareth"}

The reader will readily understand that these feelings lessened toward
the centre of the piece, acquiring most intensity at the extremes. I
may be said, myself, to have belonged to the centre gauche, that being
my accidental position in the fabric, when it was a natural consequence
to obtain sentiments of this shade. It will be seen, in the end, how
prominent were these early impressions, and how far it is worth while
for mere pocket-handkerchiefs to throw away their time, and permit
their feelings to become excited concerning interests that they are
certainly not destined to control, and about which, under the most
favorable circumstances, they seldom obtain other than very
questionable information.

{centre gauche = center left, i.e., moderate left}

It followed from this state of feeling, that the notion we were about
to fall into the hands of the unfortunate daughter of Louis XVI excited
considerable commotion and disgust among us. Though very moderate in my
political antipathies and predilections, I confess to some excitement
in my own case, declaring that if royalty WAS to be my lot, I would
prefer not to ascend any higher on the scale than to become the
property of that excellent princess, Amelie, who then presided in the
Palais Royal, the daughter and sister of a king, but with as little
prospects as desires of becoming a queen in her own person. This wish
of mine was treated as groveling, and even worse than republican, by
the cote droit of our piece, while the cote gauche sneered at it as
manifesting a sneaking regard for station without the spirit to avow
it. Both were mistaken, however; no unworthy sentiments entering into
my decision. Accident had made me acquainted with the virtues of this
estimable woman, and I felt assured that she would treat even a
pocket-handkerchief kindly. This early opinion has been confirmed by
her deportment under very trying and unexpected events. I wish, as I
believe she wishes herself, she had never been a queen.

{daughter of Louis XVI = the dauphine, Marie Therese Charlotte,
Duchesse d'Angouleme, mentioned above; Amelie = Marie Amelie
(1782-1866), daughter of King Ferdinand IV of Naples, sister of King
Francis I of The Two Sicilies—reluctantly became queen in France when
her husband the Duke of Orleans seized the throne from Charles X on
July 31, 1830, and was proclaimed King Louis Philippe of the French}

All our family did not aspire as high as royalty. Some looked forward
to the glories of a banker's daughter's trousseau,—we all understood
that our PRICE would be too high for any of the old nobility,—while
some even fancied that the happiness of traveling in company was
reserved for us before we should be called regularly to enter on the
duties of life. As we were so closely connected, and on the whole were
affectionate as became brothers and sisters, it was the common wish
that we might not be separated, but go together into the same wardrobe,
let it be foreign or domestic, that of prince or plebeian. There were a
few among us who spoke of the Duchesse de Berri as our future mistress;
but the notion prevailed that we should so soon pass into the hands of
a femme de chambre, as to render the selection little desirable. In the
end we wisely and philosophically determined to await the result with
patience, well knowing that we were altogether in the hands of caprice
and fashion.

{Duchesse de Berri = Marie Caroline (1798-1870), wife of Charles
Ferdinand of Artois, Duke of Berry, second son of King Charles X; femme
de chambre = lady's maid}

At length the happy moment arrived when we were to quit the warehouse
of the manufacturer. Let what would happen, this was a source of joy,
inasmuch as we all knew that we could only vegetate while we continued
where we then were, and that too without experiencing the delights of
our former position, with good roots in the earth, a genial sun
shedding its warmth upon our bosom, and balmy airs fanning our cheeks.
We loved change, too, like other people, and had probably seen enough
of vegetation, whether figurative or real, to satisfy us. Our departure
from Picardie took place in June, 1830, and we reached Paris on the
first day of the succeeding month. We went through the formalities of
the custom-houses, or barrieres, the same day, and the next morning we
were all transferred to a celebrated shop that dealt in articles of our
genus. Most of the goods were sent on drays to the magazin, but our
reputation having preceded us, we were honored with a fiacre, making
the journey between the Douane and the shop on the knee of a
confidential commissionaire.

{Picardie = province of France, north of Evreux; barrieres = gates at
the edge of Paris, where local customs duties were collected; magazin =
shop; fiacre = a kind of carriage; Douane = customs house;
confidential commissionaire = special messenger}

Great was the satisfaction of our little party as we first drove down
through the streets of this capital of Europe—the centre of fashion
and the abode of elegance. Our natures had adapted themselves to
circumstances, and we no longer pined for the luxuries of the linum
usitatissimum, but were ready to enter into all the pleasures of our
new existence; which we well understood was to be one of pure parade,
for no handkerchief of our quality was ever employed on any of the more
menial offices of the profession. We might occasionally brush a lady's
cheek, or conceal a blush or a smile, but the usitatissimum had been
left behind us in the fields. The fiacre stopped at the door of a
celebrated perfumer, and the commissionaire, deeming us of too much
value to be left on a carriage seat, took us in her hand while she
negotiated a small affair with its mistress. This was our introduction
to the pleasant association of sweet odors, of which it was to be our
fortune to enjoy in future the most delicate and judicious communion.
We knew very well that things of this sort were considered vulgar,
unless of the purest quality and used with the tact of good society;
but still it was permitted to sprinkle a very little lavender, or
exquisite eau de cologne, on a pocket-handkerchief. The odor of these
two scents, therefore, appeared quite natural to us, and as Madame
Savon never allowed any perfume, or articles (as these things are
technically termed), of inferior quality to pollute her shop, we had no
scruples about inhaling the delightful fragrance that breathed in the
place. Desiree, the commissionaire, could not depart without permitting
her friend, Madame Savon, to feast her eyes on the treasure in her own
hands. The handkerchiefs were unfolded, amidst a hundred dieux! ciels!
and dames! Our fineness and beauty were extolled in a manner that was
perfectly gratifying to the self-esteem of the whole family. Madame
Savon imagined that even her perfumes would be more fragrant in such
company, and she insisted on letting one drop—a single drop—of her
eau de cologne fall on the beautiful texture. I was the happy
handkerchief that was thus favored, and long did I riot in that
delightful odor, which was just strong enough to fill the air with
sensations, rather than impressions of all that is sweet and womanly in
the female wardrobe.

CHAPTER III.

Notwithstanding this accidental introduction to one of the nicest
distinctions of good society, and the general exhilaration that
prevailed in our party, I was far from being perfectly happy. To own
the truth, I had left my heart in Picardie. I do not say I was in love;
I am far from certain that there is any precedent for a
pocket-handkerchief's being in love at all, and I am quite sure that
the sensations I experienced were different from those I have since had
frequent occasion to hear described. The circumstances which called
them forth were as follows:

The manufactory in which our family was fabricated was formerly known
as the Chateau de la Rocheaimard, and had been the property of the
Vicomte de la Rocheaimard previously to the revolution that overturned
the throne of Louis XVI. The vicomte and his wife joined the royalists
at Coblentz, and the former, with his only son, Adrien de la
Rocheaimard, or the Chevalier de la Rocheaimard, as he was usually
termed, had joined the allies in their attempted invasion on the soil
of France. The vicomte, a marechal du camp, had fallen in battle, but
the son escaped, and passed his youth in exile; marrying a few years
later, a cousin whose fortunes were at as low an ebb as his own. One
child, Adrienne, was the sole issue of this marriage, having been born
in the year 1810. Both the parents died before the Restoration, leaving
the little girl to the care of her pious grandmother, la vicomtesse,
who survived, in a feeble old age, to descant on the former grandeur of
her house, and to sigh, in common with so many others, for le bon vieux
temps. At the Restoration, there was some difficulty in establishing
the right of the de la Rocheaimards to their share of the indemnity; a
difficulty I never heard explained, but which was probably owing to the
circumstance that there was no one in particular to interest themselves
in the matter, but an old woman of sixty-five and a little girl of
four. Such appellants, unsupported by money, interest, or power, seldom
make out a very strong case for reparation of any sort, in this
righteous world of ours, and had it not been for the goodness of the
dauphine it is probable that the vicomtesse and her grand-daughter
would have been reduced to downright beggary. But the daughter of the
late King got intelligence of the necessities of the two descendants of
Crusaders, and a pension of two thousand francs a year was granted, en
attendant.

{Rocheaimard = both the Chateau and the family are fictitious; marechal
du camp = general commanding a brigade; le bon vieux temps = the good
old days; late King = Louis XVI, guillotined in 1793; en attendant =
for the time being}

Four hundred dollars a year does not appear a large sum, even to the
nouveaux riches of America, but it sufficed to give Adrienne and her
grandmother a comfortable, and even a respectable subsistence in the
provinces. It was impossible for them to inhabit the chateau, now
converted into a workshop and filled with machinery, but lodgings were
procured in its immediate vicinity. Here Madame de la Rocheaimard
whiled away the close of a varied and troubled life; if not in absolute
peace, still not in absolute misery, while her grand-daughter grew into
young womanhood, a miracle of goodness and pious devotion to her sole
surviving parent. The strength of the family tie in France, and its
comparative weakness in America, has been the subject of frequent
comment among travelers. I do not know that all which has been said is
rigidly just, but I am inclined to think that much of it is, and, as I
am now writing to Americans, and of French people, I see no particular
reason why the fact should be concealed. Respect for years, deference
to the authors of their being, and submission to parental authority are
inculcated equally by the morals and the laws of France. The conseilles
de famille is a beautiful and wise provision of the national code, and
aids greatly in maintaining that system of patriarchal rule which lies
at the foundation of the whole social structure. Alas! in the case of
the excellent Adrienne, this conseille de famille was easily assembled,
and possessed perfect unanimity. The wars, the guillotine and exile had
reduced it to two, one of which was despotic in her government, so far
as theory was concerned at least; possibly, at times, a little so in
practice. Still Adrienne, on the whole grew up tolerably happy. She was
taught most that is suitable for a gentlewoman, without being crammed
with superfluous accomplishments, and, aided by the good cure, a man
who remembered her grandfather, had both polished and stored her mind.
Her manners were of the excellent tone that distinguished the good
society of Paris before the revolution, being natural, quiet, simple
and considerate. She seldom laughed, I fear; but her smiles were
sweetness and benevolence itself.

{conseille de famille = council of relatives, supervised by a judge,
that supervised the care of minors in France; cure = priest}

The bleaching grounds of our manufactory were in the old park of the
chateau. Thither Mad. de la Rocheaimard was fond of coming in the fine
mornings of June, for many of the roses and lovely Persian lilacs that
once abounded there still remained. I first saw Adrienne in one of
these visits, the quality of our little family circle attracting her
attention. One of the bleachers, indeed, was an old servant of the
vicomte's, and it was a source of pleasure to him to point out any
thing to the ladies that he thought might prove interesting. This was
the man who so diligently read the Moniteur, giving a religious
credence to all it contained. He fancied no hand so worthy to hold
fabrics of such exquisite fineness as that of Mademoiselle Adrienne,
and it was through his assiduity that I had the honor of being first
placed within the gentle pressure of her beautiful little fingers. This
occurred about a month before our departure for Paris.

Adrienne de la Rocheaimard was then just twenty. Her beauty was of a
character that is not common in France; but which, when it does exist,
is nowhere surpassed. She was slight and delicate in person, of fair
hair and complexion, and with the meekest and most dove-like blue eyes
I ever saw in a female face. Her smile, too, was of so winning and
gentle a nature, as to announce a disposition pregnant with all the
affections. Still it was well understood that Adrienne was not likely
to marry, her birth raising her above all intentions of connecting her
ancient name with mere gold, while her poverty placed an almost
insuperable barrier between her and most of the impoverished young men
of rank whom she occasionally saw. Even the power of the dauphine was
not sufficient to provide Adrienne de la Rocheaimard with a suitable
husband. But of this the charming girl never thought; she lived more
for her grandmother than for herself, and so long as that venerated
relative, almost the only one that remained to her on earth, did not
suffer or repine, she herself could be comparatively happy.

"Dans le bon vieux temps," said the vicomtesse, examining me through
her spectacles, and addressing Georges, who stood, hat in hand, to
hearken to her wisdom; "dans le bon vieux temps, mon ami, the ladies of
the chateau did not want for these things. There were six dozen in my
corbeille, that were almost as fine as this; as for the trousseau, I
believe it had twice the number, but very little inferior."

{dans de bon vieux temps = in the good old days; corbeille = wedding
presents from a bridegroom; trousseau = wedding outfit}

"I remember that madame," Georges always gave his old mistress this
title of honor, "kept many of the beautiful garments of her trousseau
untouched, down to the melancholy period of the revolution."

"It has been a mine of wealth to me, Georges, in behalf of that dear
child. You may remember that this trousseau was kept in the old
armoire, on the right hand side of the little door of my
dressing-room—"

{armoire = cupboard or closet}

"Madame la Vicomtesse will have the goodness to pardon me—it was on
the LEFT hand side of the room—Monsieur's medals were kept in the
opposite armoire."

"Our good Georges is right, Adrienne!—he has a memory! Your
grandfather insisted on keeping his medals in my dressing-room, as he
says. Well, Monsieur Georges, left or right, THERE I left the remains
of my trousseau when I fled from France, and there I found it untouched
on my return. The manufactory had saved the chateau, and the
manufacturers had spared my wardrobe. Its sale, and its materials, have
done much toward rendering that dear child respectable and well clad,
since our return."

I thought the slight color which usually adorned the fair oval cheeks
of Adrienne deepened a little at this remark, and I certainly felt a
little tremor in the hand which held me; but it could not have been
shame, as the sweet girl often alluded to her poverty in a way so
simple and natural, as to prove that she had no false feelings on that
subject. And why should she? Poverty ordinarily causes no such
sensations to those who are conscious of possessing advantages of an
order superior to wealth, and surely a well-educated, well-born,
virtuous girl need not have blushed because estates were torn from her
parents by a political convulsion that had overturned an ancient and
powerful throne.

CHAPTER IV.

From this time, the charming Adrienne frequently visited the bleaching
grounds, always accompanied by her grandmother. The presence of Georges
was an excuse, but to watch the improvement in our appearance was the
reason. Never before had Adrienne seen a fabric as beautiful as our
own, and, as I afterwards discovered, she was laying by a few francs
with the intention of purchasing the piece, and of working and
ornamenting the handkerchiefs, in order to present them to her
benefactress, the dauphine. Mad. de la Rocheaimard was pleased with
this project; it was becoming in a de la Rocheaimard; and they soon
began to speak of it openly in their visits. Fifteen or twenty
napoleons might do it, and the remains of the recovered trousseau would
still produce that sum. It is probable this intention would have been
carried out, but for a severe illness that attacked the dear girl,
during which her life was even despaired of. I had the happiness of
hearing of her gradual recovery, however, before we commenced our
journey, though no more was said of the purchase. Perhaps it was as
well as it was; for, by this time, such a feeling existed in our
extreme cote gauche, that it may be questioned if the handkerchiefs of
that end of the piece would have behaved themselves in the wardrobe of
the dauphine with the discretion and prudence that are expected from
every thing around the person of a princess of her exalted rank and
excellent character. It is true, none of us understood the questions at
issue; but that only made the matter worse; the violence of all
dissensions being very generally in proportion to the ignorance and
consequent confidence of the disputants.

{napoleon = French gold coin worth twenty francs}

I could not but remember Adrienne, as the commissionaire laid us down
before the eyes of the wife of the head of the firm, in the rue de
——. We were carefully examined, and pronounced "parfaits;" still it
was not in the sweet tones, and with the sweeter smiles of the polished
and gentle girl we had left in Picardie. There was a sentiment in HER
admiration that touched all our hearts, even to the most exaggerated
republican among us, for she seemed to go deeper in her examination of
merits than the mere texture and price. She saw her offering in our
beauty, the benevolence of the dauphine in our softness, her own
gratitude in our exquisite fineness, and princely munificence in our
delicacy. In a word, she could enter into the sentiment of a
pocket-handkerchief. Alas! how different was the estimation in which we
were held by Desiree and her employers. With them, it was purely a
question of francs, and we had not been in the magazin five minutes,
when there was a lively dispute whether we were to be put at a certain
number of napoleons, or one napoleon more. A good deal was said about
Mad. la Duchesse, and I found that it was expected that a certain lady
of that rank, one who had enjoyed the extraordinary luck of retaining
her fortune, being of an old and historical family, and who was at the
head of fashion in the faubourg, would become the purchaser. At all
events, it was determined no one should see us until this lady returned
to town, she being at the moment at Rosny, with madame, whence she was
expected to accompany that princess to Dieppe, to come back to her
hotel, in the rue de Bourbon, about the last of October. Here, then,
were we doomed to three months of total seclusion in the heart of the
gayest capital of Europe. It was useless to repine, and we determined
among ourselves to exercise patience in the best manner we could.

{faubourg = neighborhood; Rosny = Chateau of Rosny, country estate of
the Dukes of Berry at Rosny-sur-Seine; Madame = title of Princess Marie
Therese Charlotte, wife of the Dauphin Louis Antoine, heir to Charles X}

Accordingly, we were safely deposited in a particular drawer, along
with a few other favorite articles, that, like our family, were
reserved for the eyes of certain distinguished but absent customers.
These specialites in trade are of frequent occurrence in Paris, and
form a pleasant bond of union between the buyer and seller, which gives
a particular zest to this sort of commerce, and not unfrequently a
particular value to goods. To see that which no one else has seen, and
to own that which no one else can own, are equally agreeable, and
delightfully exclusive. All minds that do not possess the natural
sources of exclusion, are fond of creating them by means of a
subordinate and more artificial character.

{specialites = specialties}

On the whole, I think we enjoyed our new situation, rather than
otherwise. The drawer was never opened, it is true, but that next it
was in constant use, and certain crevices beneath the counter enabled
us to see a little, and to hear more, of what passed in the magazin. We
were in a part of the shop most frequented by ladies, and we overheard
a few tete-a-tetes that were not without amusement. These generally
related to cancans. Paris is a town in which cancans do not usually
flourish, their proper theatre being provincial and trading places,
beyond a question; still there ARE cancans at Paris; for all sorts of
persons frequent that centre of civilization. The only difference is,
that in the social pictures offered by what are called cities, the
cancans are in the strongest light, and in the most conspicuous of the
grouping, whereas in Paris they are kept in shadow, and in the
background. Still there are cancans at Paris; and cancans we overheard,
and precisely in the manner I have related. Did pretty ladies remember
that pocket-handkerchiefs have ears, they might possibly have more
reserve in the indulgence of this extraordinary propensity.

{cancans = scandals (French slang)}

We had been near a month in the drawer, when I recognized a female
voice near us, that I had often heard of late, speaking in a confident
and decided tone, and making allusions that showed she belonged to the
court. I presume her position there was not of the most exalted kind,
yet it was sufficiently so to qualify her, in her own estimation, to
talk politics. "Les ordonnances" were in her mouth constantly, and it
was easy to perceive that she attached the greatest importance to these
ordinances, whatever they were, and fancied a political millennium was
near. The shop was frequented less than usual that day; the next it was
worse still, in the way of business, and the clerks began to talk loud,
also, about les ordonnances. The following morning neither windows nor
doors were opened, and we passed a gloomy time of uncertainty and
conjecture. There were ominous sounds in the streets. Some of us
thought we heard the roar of distant artillery. At length the master
and mistress appeared by themselves in the shop; money and papers were
secured, and the female was just retiring to an inner room, when she
suddenly came back to the counter, opened our drawer, seized us with no
very reverent hands, and, the next thing we knew, the whole twelve of
us were thrust into a trunk upstairs, and buried in Egyptian darkness.
From that moment all traces of what was occurring in the streets of
Paris were lost to us. After all, it is not so very disagreeable to be
only a pocket-handkerchief in a revolution.

{Les ordonnances = four decrees establishing absolute rule, issued by
King Charles X on July 25, 1830, which touched off the July Revolution,
leading to his abdication on July 31, and the installation of the Duke
of Orleans as Louis Philippe I, King of the French—Cooper was living
in Paris during this period, though he returned there from Italy and
Germany a few days after the July Revolution itself, and he was a close
friend of the Marquis de Lafayette who played a major part in the
Revolution and its aftermath; for Cooper and many others, the ultimate
results of the Revolution were a serious disappointment, since the new
King seemed rapidly to become almost as conservative as the old}

Our imprisonment lasted until the following December. As our feelings
had become excited on the questions of the day, as well as those of
other irrational beings around us, we might have passed a most
uncomfortable time in the trunk, but for one circumstance. So great had
been the hurry of our mistress in thus shutting us up, that we had been
crammed in in a way to leave it impossible to say which was the cote
droit, and which the cote gauche. Thus completely deranged as parties,
we took to discussing philosophical matters in general; an occupation
well adapted to a situation that required so great an exercise of
discretion.

One day, when we least expected so great a change, our mistress came in
person, searched several chests, trunks and drawers, and finally
discovered us where she had laid us, with her own hands, near four
months before. It seems that, in her hurry and fright, she had actually
forgotten in what nook we had been concealed. We were smoothed with
care, our political order reestablished, and then we were taken below
and restored to the dignity of the select circle in the drawer already
mentioned. This was like removing to a fashionable square, or living in
a beau quartier of a capital. It was even better than removing from
East Broadway into bona fide, real, unequaled, league-long, eighty feet
wide, Broadway!

{beau quartier = swanky neighborhood; Broadway = in New York City, of
course}

We now had an opportunity of learning some of the great events that had
recently occurred in France, and which still troubled Europe. The
Bourbons were again dethroned, as it was termed, and another Bourbon
seated in their place. It would seem il y a Bourbon et Bourbon. The
result has since shown that "what is bred in the bone will break out in
the flesh." Commerce was at a standstill; our master passed half his
time under arms, as a national guard, in order to keep the
revolutionists from revolutionizing the revolution. The great families
had laid aside their liveries; some of them their coaches; most of them
their arms. Pocket-handkerchiefs of OUR calibre would be thought
decidedly aristocratic; and aristocracy in Paris, just at that moment,
was almost in as bad odor as it is in America, where it ranks as an
eighth deadly sin, though no one seems to know precisely what it means.
In the latter country, an honest development of democracy is certain to
be stigmatized as tainted with this crime. No governor would dare to
pardon it.

{il y a Bourbon et Bourbon = there are Bourbons and Bourbons (i.e.,
they're all the same); "What is bred in the bone...." = a possibly
deliberate misquotation of "It will not out of the flesh that is bred
in the bone" from John Heywood, "Proverbes", Part II, Chapter VIII
(1546)}

The groans over the state of trade were loud and deep among those who
lived by its innocent arts. Still, the holidays were near, and hope
revived. If revolutionized Paris would not buy as the jour de l'an
approached, Paris must have a new dynasty. The police foresaw this,
and it ceased to agitate, in order to bring the republicans into
discredit; men must eat, and trade was permitted to revive a little.
Alas! how little do they who vote, know WHY they vote, or they who dye
their hands in the blood of their kind, why the deed has been done!

{jour de l'an = New Years Day}

The duchesse had not returned to Paris, neither had she emigrated. Like
most of the high nobility, who rightly enough believed that
primogeniture and birth were of the last importance to THEM, she
preferred to show her distaste for the present order of things, by
which the youngest prince of a numerous family had been put upon the
throne of the oldest, by remaining at her chateau. All expectations of
selling us to HER were abandoned, and we were thrown fairly into the
market, on the great principle of liberty and equality. This was as
became a republican reign.

Our prospects were varied daily. The dauphine, madame, and all the de
Rochefoucaulds, de la Tremouilles, de Grammonts, de Rohans, de
Crillons, &c. &c., were out of the question. The royal family were in
England, the Orleans branch excepted, and the high nobility were very
generally on their "high ropes," or, a bouder. As for the bankers,
their reign had not yet fairly commenced. Previously to July, 1830,
this estimable class of citizens had not dared to indulge their native
tastes for extravagance and parade, the grave dignity and high breeding
of a very ancient but impoverished nobility holding them in some
restraint; and, then, THEIR fortunes were still uncertain; the funds
were not firm, and even the honorable and worthy Jacques Lafitte, a man
to ennoble any calling, was shaking in credit. Had we been brought into
the market a twelvemonth later, there is no question that we should
have been caught up within a week, by the wife or daughter of some of
the operatives at the Bourse.

As it was, however, we enjoyed ample leisure for observation and
thought. Again and again were we shown to those who, it was thought,
could not fail to yield to our beauty, but no one would purchase. All
appeared to eschew aristocracy, even in their pocket-handkerchiefs. The
day the fleurs de lys were cut out of the medallions of the treasury,
and the king laid down his arms, I thought our mistress would have had
the hysterics on our account. Little did she understand human nature,
for the nouveaux riches, who are as certain to succeed an old and
displaced class of superiors, as hungry flies to follow flies with full
bellies, would have been much more apt to run into extravagance and
folly, than persons always accustomed to money, and who did not depend
on its exhibition for their importance. A day of deliverance,
notwithstanding, was at hand, which to me seemed like the bridal of a
girl dying to rush into the dissipations of society.

{fleurs de lys = symbol of the Bourbon monarchs}

CHAPTER V.

The holidays were over, without there being any material revival of
trade, when my deliverance unexpectedly occurred. It was in February,
and I do believe our mistress had abandoned the expectation of
disposing of us that season, when I heard a gentle voice speaking near
the counter, one day, in tones which struck me as familiar. It was a
female, of course, and her inquiries were about a piece of cambric
handkerchiefs, which she said had been sent to this shop from a
manufactory in Picardie. There was nothing of the customary alertness
in the manner of our mistress, and, to my surprise, she even showed the
customer one or two pieces of much inferior quality, before we were
produced. The moment I got into the light, however, I recognized the
beautifully turned form and sweet face of Adrienne de la Rocheaimard.
The poor girl was paler and thinner than when I had last seen her,
doubtless, I thought, the effects of her late illness; but I could not
conceal from myself the unpleasant fact that she was much less
expensively clad. I say less expensively clad, though the expression is
scarcely just, for I had never seen her in attire that could properly
be called expensive at all; and, yet, the term mean would be equally
inapplicable to her present appearance. It might be better to say that,
relieved by a faultless, even a fastidious neatness and grace, there
was an air of severe, perhaps of pinched economy in her present attire.
This it was that had prevented our mistress from showing her fabrics as
fine as we, on the first demand. Still I thought there was a slight
flush on the cheek of the poor girl, and a faint smile on her features,
as she instantly recognized us for old acquaintances. For one, I own I
was delighted at finding her soft fingers again brushing over my own
exquisite surface, feeling as if one had been expressly designed for
the other. Then Adrienne hesitated; she appeared desirous of speaking,
and yet abashed. Her color went and came, until a deep rosy blush
settled on each cheek, and her tongue found utterance.

"Would it suit you, madame," she asked, as if dreading a repulse, "to
part with one of these?"

"Your pardon, mademoiselle; handkerchiefs of this quality are seldom
sold singly."

"I feared as much—and yet I have occasion for only ONE. It is to be
worked—if it—"

The words came slowly, and they were spoken with difficulty. At that
last uttered, the sound of the sweet girl's voice died entirely away. I
fear it was the dullness of trade, rather than any considerations of
benevolence, that induced our mistress to depart from her rule.

"The price of each handkerchief is five and twenty francs,
mademoiselle—" she had offered the day before to sell us to the wife
of one of the richest agents de change in Paris, at a napoleon a
piece—"the price is five and twenty francs, if you take the dozen, but
as you appear to wish only ONE, rather than not oblige you, it may be
had for eight and twenty."

There was a strange mixture of sorrow and delight in the countenance of
Adrienne; but she did not hesitate, and, attracted by the odor of the
eau de cologne, she instantly pointed me out as the handkerchief she
selected. Our mistress passed her scissors between me and my neighbor
of the cote gauche, and then she seemed instantly to regret her own
precipitation. Before making the final separation from the piece, she
delivered herself of her doubts.

"It is worth another franc, mademoiselle," she said, "to cut a
handkerchief from the CENTRE of the piece."

The pain of Adrienne was now too manifest for concealment. That she
ardently desired the handkerchief was beyond dispute, and yet there
existed some evident obstacle to her wishes.

"I fear I have not so much money with me, madame" she said, pale as
death, for all sense of shame was lost in intense apprehension. Still
her trembling hands did their duty, and her purse was produced. A gold
napoleon promised well, but it had no fellow. Seven more francs
appeared in single pieces. Then two ten-sous were produced; after which
nothing remained but copper. The purse was emptied, and the reticule
rummaged, the whole amounting to just twenty-eight francs seven sous.

{sou = a small coin (5 centimes)—20 sous equal one franc}

"I have no more, madame," said Adrienne, in a faint voice.

The woman, who had been trained in the school of suspicion, looked
intently at the other, for an instant, and then she swept the money
into her drawer, content with having extorted from this poor girl more
than she would have dared to ask of the wife of the agent de change.
Adrienne took me up and glided from the shop, as if she feared her dear
bought prize would yet be torn from her. I confess my own delight was
so great that I did not fully appreciate, at the time, all the hardship
of the case. It was enough to be liberated, to get into the fresh air,
to be about to fulfill my proper destiny. I was tired of that sort of
vegetation in which I neither grew, nor was watered by tears; nor could
I see those stars on which I so much doated, and from which I had
learned a wisdom so profound. The politics, too, were rendering our
family unpleasant; the cote droit was becoming supercilious—it had
always been illogical; while the cote gauche was just beginning to
discover that it had made a revolution for other people. Then it was
happiness itself to be with Adrienne, and when I felt the dear girl
pressing me to her heart, by an act of volition of which
pocket-handkerchiefs are little suspected, I threw up a fold of my
gossamer-like texture, as if the air wafted me, and brushed the first
tear of happiness from her eye that she had shed in months.

{revolution for other people = as he suggests frequently in this story,
Cooper believed that the promise of the July Revolution was betrayed,
and that the new government of King Louis Philippe proved little better
than the old reactionary one of King Charles X; in this he shared the
views of his friend the Marquis de Lafayette, the hero of the American
Revolution, who as head of the French National Guard had been one of
the leaders of the July Revolution in Paris}

The reader may be certain that my imagination was all alive to
conjecture the circumstances which had brought Adrienne de la
Rocheaimard to Paris, and why she had been so assiduous in searching me
out, in particular. Could it be that the grateful girl still intended
to make her offering to the Duchesse de d'Angouleme? Ah! no—that
princess was in exile; while her sister was forming weak plots in
behalf of her son, which a double treachery was about to defeat. I have
already hinted that pocket-handkerchiefs do not receive and communicate
ideas, by means of the organs in use among human beings. They possess a
clairvoyance that is always available under favorable circumstances. In
their case the mesmeritic trance may be said to be ever in existence,
while in the performance of their proper functions. It is only while
crowded into bales, or thrust into drawers for the vulgar purposes of
trade, that this instinct is dormant, a beneficent nature scorning to
exercise her benevolence for any but legitimate objects. I now mean
legitimacy as connected with cause and effect, and nothing political or
dynastic.

{Duchesse d'Angouleme = Marie Therese Charlotte, the Dauphine,
Adrienne's patron; her sister = her sister-in-law Marie Caroline,
Duchesse de Berry, who led an unsuccessful revolt against the new
regime}

By virtue of this power, I had not long been held in the soft hand of
Adrienne, or pressed against her beating heart, without becoming the
master of all her thoughts, as well as her various causes of hope and
fear. This knowledge did not burst upon me at once, it is true, as is
pretended to be the case with certain somnambules, for with me there is
no empiricism—every thing proceeds from cause to effect, and a little
time, with some progressive steps, was necessary to make me fully
acquainted with the whole. The simplest things became the first
apparent, and others followed by a species of magnetic induction, which
I cannot now stop to explain. When this tale is told, I propose to
lecture on the subject, to which all the editors in the country will
receive the usual free tickets, when the world cannot fail of knowing
quite as much, at least, as these meritorious public servants.

The first fact that I learned, was the very important one that the
vicomtesse had lost all her usual means of support by the late
revolution, and the consequent exile of the dauphine. This blow, so
terrible to the grandmother and her dependent child, had occurred, too,
most inopportunely, as to time. A half year's pension was nearly due at
the moment the great change occurred, and the day of payment arrived
and passed, leaving these two females literally without twenty francs.
Had it not been for the remains of the trousseau, both must have
begged, or perished of want. The crisis called for decision, and
fortunately the old lady, who had already witnessed so many
vicissitudes, had still sufficient energy to direct their proceedings.
Paris was the best place in which to dispose of her effects, and
thither she and Adrienne came, without a moment's delay. The shops were
first tried, but the shops, in the autumn of 1830, offered indifferent
resources for the seller. Valuable effects were there daily sold for a
twentieth part of their original cost, and the vicomtesse saw her
little stores diminish daily; for the Mont de Piete was obliged to
regulate its own proceedings by the received current values of the day.
Old age, vexation, and this last most cruel blow, did not fail of
effecting that which might have been foreseen. The vicomtesse sunk
under this accumulation of misfortunes, and became bed-ridden,
helpless, and querulous. Every thing now devolved on the timid, gentle,
unpracticed Adrienne. All females of her condition, in countries
advanced in civilization like France, look to the resource of imparting
a portion of what they themselves have acquired, to others of their own
sex, in moments of urgent necessity. The possibility of Adrienne's
being compelled to become a governess, or a companion, had long been
kept in view, but the situation of Mad. de la Rocheaimard forbade any
attempt of the sort, for the moment, had the state of the country
rendered it at all probable that a situation could have been procured.
On this fearful exigency, Adrienne had aroused all her energies, and
gone deliberately into the consideration of her circumstances.

{Mont de Piete = traditional term for a municipal pawn shop operated to
help the poor}

Poverty had compelled Mad. de la Rocheaimard to seek the cheapest
respectable lodgings she could find on reaching town. In anticipation
of a long residence, and, for the consideration of a considerable
abatement in price, she had fortunately paid six months' rent in
advance; thus removing from Adrienne the apprehension of having no
place in which to cover her head, for some time to come. These lodgings
were in an entresol of the Place Royale, a perfectly reputable and
private part of the town, and in many respects were highly eligible.
Many of the menial offices, too, were to be performed by the wife of
the porter, according to the bargain, leaving to poor Adrienne,
however, all the care of her grandmother, whose room she seldom
quitted, the duties of nurse and cook, and the still more important
task of finding the means of subsistence.

{entresol = mezzanine, low-ceilinged area between between the first and
second floors}

For quite a month the poor desolate girl contrived to provide for her
grandmother's necessities, by disposing of the different articles of
the trousseau. This store was now nearly exhausted, and she had found a
milliner who gave her a miserable pittance for toiling with her needle
eight or ten hours each day. Adrienne had not lost a moment, but had
begun this system of ill-requited industry long before her money was
exhausted. She foresaw that her grandmother must die, and the great
object of her present existence was to provide for the few remaining
wants of this only relative during the brief time she had yet to live,
and to give her decent and Christian burial. Of her own future lot, the
poor girl thought as little as possible, though fearful glimpses would
obtrude themselves on her uneasy imagination. At first she had employed
a physician; but her means could not pay for his visits, nor did the
situation of her grandmother render them very necessary. He promised to
call occasionally without fee, and, for a short time, he kept his word,
but his benevolence soon wearied of performing offices that really were
not required. By the end of a month, Adrienne saw him no more.

As long as her daily toil seemed to supply her own little wants,
Adrienne was content to watch on, weep on, pray on, in waiting for the
moment she so much dreaded; that which was to sever the last tie she
appeared to possess on earth. It is true she had a few very distant
relatives, but they had emigrated to America, at the commencement of
the revolution of 1789, and all trace of them had long been lost. In
point of fact, the men were dead, and the females were grandmothers
with English names, and were almost ignorant of any such persons as the
de la Rocheaimards. From these Adrienne had nothing to expect. To her,
they were as beings in another planet. But the trousseau was nearly
exhausted, and the stock of ready money was reduced to a single
napoleon, and a little change. It was absolutely necessary to decide on
some new scheme for a temporary subsistence, and that without delay.

Among the valuables of the trousseau was a piece of exquisite lace,
that had never been even worn. The vicomtesse had a pride in looking at
it, for it showed the traces of her former wealth and magnificence, and
she would never consent to part with it. Adrienne had carried it once
to her employer, the milliner, with the intention of disposing of it,
but the price offered was so greatly below what she knew to be the true
value, that she would not sell it. Her own wardrobe, however, was going
fast, nothing disposable remained of her grandmother's, and this piece
of lace must be turned to account in some way. While reflecting on
these dire necessities, Adrienne remembered our family. She knew to
what shop we had been sent in Paris, and she now determined to purchase
one of us, to bestow on the handkerchief selected some of her own
beautiful needle work, to trim it with this lace, and, by the sale, to
raise a sum sufficient for all her grandmother's earthly wants.

Generous souls are usually ardent. Their hopes keep pace with their
wishes, and, as Adrienne had heard that twenty napoleons were sometimes
paid by the wealthy for a single pocket-handkerchief, when thus
decorated, she saw a little treasure in reserve, before her mind's eye.

"I can do the work in two months," she said to herself, "by taking the
time I have used for exercise, and by severe economy; by eating less
myself, and working harder, we can make out to live that time on what
we have."

This was the secret of my purchase, and the true reason why this lovely
girl had literally expended her last sou in making it. The cost had
materially exceeded her expectations, and she could not return home
without disposing of some article she had in her reticule, to supply
the vacuum left in her purse. There would be nothing ready for the
milliner, under two or three days, and there was little in the lodgings
to meet the necessities of her grandmother. Adrienne had taken her way
along the quays, delighted with her acquisition, and was far from the
Mont de Piete before this indispensable duty occurred to her mind. She
then began to look about her for a shop in which she might dispose of
something for the moment. Luckily she was the mistress of a gold
thimble, that had been presented to her by her grandmother, as her very
last birth-day present. It was painful for her to part with it, but, as
it was to supply the wants of that very parent, the sacrifice cost her
less than might otherwise have been the case. Its price had been a
napoleon, and a napoleon, just then, was a mint of money in her eyes.
Besides, she had a silver thimble at home, and a brass one would do for
her work.

Adrienne's necessities had made her acquainted with several jewellers'
shops. To one of these she now proceeded, and, first observing through
the window that no person was in but one of her own sex, the
silversmith's wife, she entered with the greater confidence and
alacrity.

"Madame," she said, in timid tones, for want had not yet made Adrienne
bold or coarse, "I have a thimble to dispose of—could you be induced
to buy it?"

The woman took the thimble and examined it, weighed it, and submitted
its metal to the test of the touchstone. It was a pretty thimble,
though small, or it would not have fitted Adrienne's finger. This fact
struck the woman of the shop, and she cast a suspicious glance at
Adrienne's hand, the whiteness and size of which, however, satisfied
her that the thimble had not been stolen.

{touchstone = a variety of black stone used to test the purity of gold,
by the streak it leaves when rubbed on the stone}

"What do you expect to receive for this thimble, mademoiselle?" asked
the woman, coldly.

"It cost a napoleon, madame, and was made expressly for myself."

"You do not expect to sell it at what it cost?" was the dry answer.

"Perhaps not, madame—I suppose you will look for a profit in selling
it again. I wish you to name the price."

This was said because the delicate ever shrink from affixing a value to
the time and services of others. Adrienne was afraid she might
unintentionally deprive the other of a portion of her just gains. The
woman understood by the timidity and undecided manner of the applicant,
that she had a very unpracticed being to deal with, and she was
emboldened to act accordingly. First taking another look at the pretty
little hand and fingers, to make certain the thimble might not be
reclaimed, when satisfied that it really belonged to her who wished to
dispose of it, she ventured to answer.

"In such times as we had before these vile republicans drove all the
strangers from Paris, and when our commerce was good," she said, "I
might have offered seven francs and a half for that thimble; but, as
things are now, the last sou I can think of giving is five francs."

"The gold is very good, madame," Adrienne observed, in a voice
half-choked, "they told my grandmother the metal alone was worth
thirteen."

"Perhaps, mademoiselle, they might give that much at the mint, for
there they coin money; but, in this shop, no one will give more than
five francs for that thimble."

Had Adrienne been longer in communion with a cold and heartless world,
she would not have submitted to this piece of selfish extortion; but,
inexperienced, and half frightened by the woman's manner, she begged
the pittance offered as a boon, dropped her thimble, and made a hasty
retreat. When the poor girl reached the street, she began to reflect on
what she had done. Five francs would scarcely support her grandmother a
week, with even the wood and wine she had on hand, and she had no more
gold thimbles to sacrifice. A heavy sigh broke from her bosom, and
tears stood in her eyes. But she was wanted at home, and had not the
leisure to reflect on her own mistake.

CHAPTER VI.

Occupation is a blessed relief to the miserable. Of all the ingenious
modes of torture that have ever been invented, that of solitary
confinement is probably the most cruel—the mind feeding on itself with
the rapacity of a cormorant, when the conscience quickens its activity
and feeds its longings. Happily for Adrienne, she had too many positive
cares, to be enabled to waste many minutes either in retrospection, or
in endeavors to conjecture the future. Far—far more happily for
herself, her conscience was clear, for never had a purer mind, or a
gentler spirit dwelt in female breast. Still she could blame her own
oversight, and it was days before her self-upbraidings, for thus
trifling with what she conceived to be the resources of her beloved
grandmother, were driven from her thoughts by the pressure of other and
greater ills.

Were I to last a thousand years, and rise to the dignity of being the
handkerchief that the Grand Turk is said to toss toward his favorite, I
could not forget the interest with which I accompanied Adrienne to the
door of her little apartment, in the entresol. She was in the habit of
hiring little Nathalie, the porter's daughter, to remain with her
grandmother during her own necessary but brief absences, and this girl
was found at the entrance, eager to be relieved.

"Non, mademoiselle; madame has done nothing but sleep, and I was
getting SO tired!"

The sou was given, and the porter's daughter disappeared, leaving
Adrienne alone in the ante-chamber. The furniture of this little
apartment was very respectable, for Madame de la Rocheaimard, besides
paying a pretty fair rent, had hired it just after the revolution, when
the prices had fallen quite half, and the place had, by no means, the
appearance of that poverty which actually reigned within. Adrienne went
through the ante-chamber, which served also as a salle a manger, and
passed a small saloon, into the bed-chamber of her parent. Here her
mind was relieved by finding all right. She gave her grandmother some
nourishment, inquired tenderly as to her wishes, executed several
little necessary offices, and then sat down to work for her own daily
bread; every moment being precious to one so situated. I expected to be
examined—perhaps caressed, fondled, or praised, but no such attention
awaited me. Adrienne had arranged every thing in her own mind, and I
was to be produced only at those extra hours in the morning, when she
had been accustomed to take exercise in the open air. For the moment I
was laid aside, though in a place that enabled me to be a witness of
all that occurred. The day passed in patient toil, on the part of the
poor girl, the only relief she enjoyed being those moments when she was
called on to attend to the wants of her grandmother. A light potage,
with a few grapes and bread, composed her dinner; even of these I
observed that she laid aside nearly half for the succeeding day, doubts
of her having the means of supporting her parent until the handkerchief
was completed beginning to beset her mind. It was these painful and
obtrusive doubts that most distressed the dear girl, now, for the
expectation of reaping a reward comparatively brilliant, from the
ingenious device to repair her means on which she had fallen, was
strong within her. Poor child! her misgivings were the overflowings of
a tender heart, while her hopes partook of the sanguine character of
youth and inexperience!

{salle a manger = dining room; salon = living room; potage = soup}

My turn came the following morning. It was now spring, and this is a
season of natural delights at Paris. We were already in April, and the
flowers had begun to shed their fragrance on the air, and to brighten
the aspect of the public gardens. Mad. de la Rocheaimard usually slept
the soundest at this hour, and, hitherto, Adrienne had not hesitated to
leave her, while she went herself to the nearest public promenade, to
breathe the pure air and to gain strength for the day. In future, she
was to deny herself this sweet gratification. It was such a sacrifice,
as the innocent and virtuous, and I may add the tasteful, who are
cooped up amid the unnatural restraints of a town, will best know how
to appreciate. Still it was made without a murmur, though not without a
sigh.

When Adrienne laid me on the frame where I was to be ornamented by her
own pretty hands, she regarded me with a look of delight, nay, even of
affection, that I shall never forget. As yet she felt none of the
malign consequences of the self-denial she was about to exert. If not
blooming, her cheeks still retained some of their native color, and her
eye, thoughtful and even sad, was not yet anxious and sunken. She was
pleased with her purchase, and she contemplated prodigies in the way of
results. Adrienne was unusually skillful with the needle, and her taste
had been so highly cultivated, as to make her a perfect mistress of all
the proprieties of patterns. At the time it was thought of making an
offering of all our family to the dauphine, the idea of working the
handkerchiefs was entertained, and some designs of exquisite beauty and
neatness had been prepared. They were not simple, vulgar, unmeaning
ornaments, such as the uncultivated seize upon with avidity on account
of their florid appearance, but well devised drawings, that were
replete with taste and thought, and afforded some apology for the
otherwise senseless luxury contemplated, by aiding in refining the
imagination, and cultivating the intellect. She had chosen one of the
simplest and most beautiful of these designs, intending to transfer it
to my face, by means of the needle.

The first stitch was made just as the clocks were striking the hour of
five, on the morning of the fourteenth of April, 1831. The last was
drawn that day two months, precisely as the same clocks struck twelve.
For four hours Adrienne sat bending over her toil, deeply engrossed in
the occupation, and flattering herself with the fruits of her success.
I learned much of the excellent child's true character in these brief
hours. Her mind wandered over her hopes and fears, recurring to her
other labors, and the prices she received for occupations so wearying
and slavish. By the milliner, she was paid merely as a common
sewing-girl, though her neatness, skill and taste might well have
entitled her to double wages. A franc a day was the usual price for
girls of an inferior caste, and out of this they were expected to find
their own lodgings and food. But the poor revolution had still a great
deal of private misery to answer for, in the way of reduced wages.
Those who live on the frivolities of mankind, or, what is the same
thing, their luxuries, have two sets of victims to plunder—the
consumer, and the real producer, or the operative. This is true where
men are employed, but much truer in the case of females. The last are
usually so helpless, that they often cling to oppression and wrong,
rather than submit to be cast entirely upon the world. The marchande de
mode who employed Adrienne was as rusee as a politician who had
followed all the tergiversations of Gallic policy, since the year '89.
She was fully aware of what a prize she possessed in the unpracticed
girl, and she felt the importance of keeping her in ignorance of her
own value. By paying the franc, it might give her assistant premature
notions of her own importance; but, by bringing her down to fifteen
sous, humility could be inculcated, and the chance of keeping her
doubled. This, which would have defeated a bargain with any common
couturiere, succeeded perfectly with Adrienne. She received her fifteen
sous with humble thankfulness, in constant apprehension of losing even
that miserable pittance. Nor would her employer consent to let her work
by the piece, at which the dear child might have earned at least thirty
sous, for she discovered that she had to deal with a person of
conscience, and that in no mode could as much be possibly extracted
from the assistant, as by confiding to her own honor. At nine each day
she was to breakfast. At a quarter past nine, precisely, to commence
work for her employer; at one, she had a remission of half an hour; and
at six, she became her own mistress.

"I put confidence in you, mademoiselle," said the marchande de mode,
"and leave you to yourself entirely. You will bring home the work as it
is finished, and your money will be always ready. Should your
grandmother occupy more of your time than common, on any occasion, you
can make it up of yourself, by working a little earlier, or a little
later; or, once in a while, you can throw in a day, to make up for lost
time. You would not do as well at piecework, and I wish to deal
generously by you. When certain things are wanted in a hurry, you will
not mind working an hour or two beyond time, and I will always find
lights with the greatest pleasure. Permit me to advise you to take the
intermissions as much as possible for your attentions to your
grandmother, who must be attended to properly. Si—the care of our
parents is one of our most solemn duties! Adieu, mademoiselle; au
revoir!"

{find lights = supply candles; si = yes indeed}

This was one of the speeches of the marchande de mode to Adrienne, and
the dear girl repeated it in her mind, as she sat at work on me,
without the slightest distrust of the heartless selfishness it so ill
concealed. On fifteen sous she found she could live without encroaching
on the little stock set apart for the support of her grandmother, and
she was content. Alas! The poor girl had not entered into any
calculation of the expense of lodgings, of fuel, of clothes, of health
impaired, and as for any resources for illness or accidents, she was
totally without them. Still Adrienne thought herself the obliged party,
in times as critical as those which then hung over France, in being
permitted to toil for a sum that would barely supply a grisette,
accustomed all her life to privations, with the coarsest necessaries.

{grisette = working-class girl}

I have little to say of the succeeding fortnight. Mad. De la
Rocheaimard gradually grew feebler, but she might still live months. No
one could tell, and Adrienne hoped she would never die. Happily, her
real wants were few; though her appetite was capricious, and her temper
querulous. Love for her grandchild, however, shone in all she said and
did, and so long as she was loved by this, the only being on earth she
had ever been taught to love herself, Adrienne would not think an
instant of the ills caused by the infirmities of age. She husbanded her
money, with the utmost frugality, and contrived to save even a few sous
daily, out of her own wages, to add to her grandmother's stock. This
she could not have done, but for the circumstance of there being so
much in the house of their early stores, to help eke out the supplies
of the moment. But, at the end of a fortnight, Adrienne found herself
reduced to her last franc, including all her own savings. Something
must be done, and that without delay, or Madame de la Rocheaimard would
be without the means of support.

By this time Adrienne had little to dispose of, except the lace. This
exquisite piece of human ingenuity had originally cost five louis d'or,
and Adrienne had once shown it to her employer, who had generously
offered to give two napoleons for it. But the lace must be kept for my
gala dress, and it was hoped that it would bring at least its original
cost when properly bestowed as an ornament on a fabric of my quality.
There was the silver thimble, and that had cost five francs. Adrienne
sent for the porter's daughter, and she went forth to dispose of this,
almost the only article of luxury that remained to her.

{louis d'or = gold coin worth 20 francs}

"Un de, ma bonne demoiselle!" exclaimed the woman to whom the thimble
was offered for sale; "this is so common an article as scarcely to
command any price. I will give thirty sous, notwithstanding."

{Un de.... = A thimble, young lady!}

Adrienne had made her calculations, as she fancied, with some attention
to the ways of the world. Bitter experience was teaching her severe
lessons, and she felt the necessity of paying more attention than had
been her wont to the practices of men. She had hoped to receive three
francs for her thimble, which was quite new, and which, being pretty,
was cheap at five, as sold in the shops. She ventured, therefore, to
express as much to the woman in question.

"Three francs, Mademoiselle!" exclaimed the other—"Jamais, since the
three days! All our commerce was then destroyed, and no one would think
of giving such a price. If I get three for it myself I shall be too
happy. Cependant, as the thimble is pretty, and the metal looks good,
we will say five and thirty sous, and have no more words about it."

{Jamais = never; three days = the three days of the July Revolution;
Cependant = nevertheless}

Adrienne sighed, and then she received the money and returned home. Two
hours later the woman of the shop met with an idle customer who had
more money than discretion, and she sold this very thimble for six
francs, under the plea that it was a new fashion that had sprung out of
the Revolution of July. That illustrious event, however, produced other
results that were quite as hard to be reduced to the known connection
between cause and effect as this.

Adrienne found that by using the wine which still remained, as well as
some sugar and arrowroot, her grandmother could be made comfortable for
just ten sous a day. She had been able to save of her own wages three,
and here, then, were the means of maintaining Madame de la Rocheaimard,
including the franc on hand, for just a week longer. To do this,
however, some little extra economy would be necessary. Adrienne had
conscientiously taken the time used to sell the thimble from her
morning's work on me. As she sat down, on her return, she went over
these calculations in her mind, and when they were ended, she cast a
look at her work, as if to calculate its duration by what she had so
far finished. Her eye assured her that not more than one fourth of her
labor was, as yet, completed. Could she get over the next six weeks,
however, she would be comparatively rich, and, as her lease would be
out in two months, she determined to get cheaper lodgings in the
country, remove her grandmother, purchase another handkerchief—if
possible one of my family—and while she lived on the fruits of her
present labors, to earn the means for a still more remote day. It is
true, she had no more lace with which to decorate another handkerchief,
but the sale of this would supply the money to purchase anew, and in
this way the simple minded girl saw no reason why she might not
continue on as long as health and strength would allow—at least as
long as her grandmother lived.

Hope is as blessed a provision for the poor and unhappy as occupation.
While oppressed with present ills they struggle to obtain a fancied
existence under happier auspices, furnishing a healthful and important
lesson to man, that never ceases to remind him of a future that is to
repair every wrong, apply a balm to every wound, if he will only make a
timely provision for its wants.

Again did Adrienne resume her customary round of duties. Four hours
each morning were devoted to me. Then followed the frugal breakfast,
when her commoner toil for the milliner succeeded. The rest of the day
was occupied with this latter work, for which she received the
customary fifteen sous. When she retired at night, which the ailings
and complaints of her grandmother seldom permitted before eleven, it
was with a sense of weariness that began to destroy sleep; still the
dear girl thought herself happy, for I more than equaled her
expectations, and she had latterly worked on me with so much zeal as to
have literally thrown the fruits of two weeks' work into one.

But the few francs Adrienne possessed diminished with alarming
rapidity. She began to calculate her ways and means once more, and this
was no longer done as readily as before. Her own wardrobe would not
bear any drain upon it. Early in the indisposition of her grandmother,
all of THAT had been sold which she could spare; for, with the
disinterestedness of her nature, when sacrifices became necessary her
first thoughts were of her own little stock of clothes. Of jewelry she
never had been the mistress of much, though the vicomtesse had managed
to save a few relics of her own ancient magnificence. Nevertheless,
they were articles of but little value, the days of her exile having
made many demands on all such resources.

It happened, one evening when Adrienne was receiving her wages from the
milliner, that the poor girl overheard a discourse that proved she was
not paid at the rate at which others were remunerated. Her eyes told
her that her own work was the neatest in the shop, and she also saw
that she did more than any other girl employed by the same person. As
she knew her own expertness with the needle, this did not surprise her;
but she felt some wonder that more and better work should produce the
least reward. Little did she understand the artifices of the selfish
and calculating, one of the most familiar of their frauds being to
conceal from the skillful their own success, lest it should command a
price in proportion to its claims. The milliner heard Adrienne's
lady-like and gentle remonstrance with alarm, and she felt that she was
in danger of losing a prize. But two expedients suggested themselves;
to offer a higher price, or to undervalue the services she was so
fearful of losing. Her practiced policy, as well as her selfishness,
counseled her to try the latter expedient first.

"You amaze me, mademoiselle," she answered, when Adrienne, trembling at
her own resolution, ceased speaking. "I was thinking myself whether I
could afford to pay you fifteen sous, when so many young women who have
been regularly brought up to the business are willing to work for less.
I am afraid we must part, unless you can consent to receive twelve sous
in future."

Adrienne stood aghast. The very mirror of truth herself, she could not
imagine that any one—least of all any woman—could be so false and
cruel as to practice the artifice to which the milliner had resorted;
and, here, just as she saw a way opened by which she might support both
her grandmother and herself until the handkerchief was completed, a
change threatened her, by which she was to be left altogether without
food. Still her conscience was so tender that she even doubted the
propriety of accepting her old wages were she really incompetent to
earn them.

"I had hoped, madame," she said, the color coming and going on cheeks
that were now usually pale—"I had hoped, madame, that you found my
work profitable. Surely, surely I bring home as much at night as any
other demoiselle you employ."

"In that there is not much difference, I allow, mademoiselle; but you
can imagine that work done by one accustomed to the art is more likely
to please customers than work done by one who has been educated as a
lady. Cependant, I will not throw you off, as I know that your poor
dear grandmother—"

"Si—si," eagerly interrupted Adrienne, trembling from head to foot
with apprehension.

"I know it all, mademoiselle, and the dear old lady shall not suffer;
you shall both be made happy again on fifteen. To ease your mind,
mademoiselle, I am willing to make a written contract for a year; at
that rate, too, to put your heart at ease."

"Non—non—non," murmured Adrienne, happy and grateful for the moment,
but unwilling to defeat her own plans for the future. "Thank you, thank
you, madame; to-morrow you shall see what I can do."

And Adrienne toiled the succeeding day, not only until her fingers and
body ached, but, until her very heart ached. Poor child! Little did she
think that she was establishing precedents against herself, by which
further and destructive exertions might be required. But the
apprehension of losing the pittance she actually received, and thereby
blasting all hopes from me, was constantly before her mind, quickening
her hand and sustaining her body.

During all this time Madame de la Rocheaimard continued slowly to sink.
Old age, disappointments and poverty were working out their usual
results, and death was near to close the scene. So gradual were the
changes, however, that Adrienne did not note them, and accustomed as
she had been to the existence, the presence, the love of this one
being, and of this being only, to her the final separation scarce
seemed within the bounds of possibility. Surely every thing around the
human family inculcates the doctrine of the mysterious future, and the
necessity of living principally that they be prepared to die. All they
produce perishes, all they imagine perishes, as does all they love. The
union of two beings may be so engrossing, in their eyes, have lasted so
long, and embraced so many ties, as to seem indissoluble; it is all
seeming; the hour will infallibly come when the past becomes as
nothing, except as it has opened the way to the future.

Adrienne at length, by dint of excessive toil, by working deep into the
nights, by stinting herself of food, and by means of having disposed of
the last article with which she could possibly part, had managed to
support her grandmother and herself, until she saw me so far done as to
be within another day's work of completion. At such a moment as this
all feeling of vanity is out of the question. I was certainly very
beautiful. A neater, a more tasteful, a finer, or a more exquisitely
laced handkerchief, did not exist within the walls of Paris. In all
that she figured to herself, as related to my appearance, the end
justified her brightest expectations; but, as that end drew near, she
felt how insufficient were human results to meet the desires of human
hopes. Now that her painful and exhausting toil was nearly over, she
did not experience the happiness she had anticipated. The fault was not
in me; but in herself. Hope had exhausted her spirit, and as if merely
to teach the vanity of the wishes of men, a near approach to the object
that had seemed so desirable in the distance, had stripped off the mask
and left the real countenance exposed. There was nothing unusual in
this; it was merely following out a known law of nature.

CHAPTER VII.

The morning of the 14th June arrived. Paris is then at its loveliest
season. The gardens in particular are worthy of the capital of Europe,
and they are open to all who can manage to make a decent appearance.
Adrienne's hotel had a little garden in the rear, and she sat at her
window endeavoring to breathe the balmy odors that arose from it. Enter
it she could not. It was the property, or devoted to the uses, of the
occupant of the rez de chaussee. Still she might look at it as often as
she dared to raise her eyes from her needle. The poor girl was not what
she had been two months before. The handkerchief wanted but a few hours
of being finished, it is true, but the pale cheeks, the hollow eyes and
the anxious look, proved at what a sacrifice of health and physical
force I had become what I was. As I had grown in beauty, the hand that
ornamented me had wasted, and when I looked up to catch the smile of
approbation, it was found to be care worn and melancholy. Still the
birds did not sing the less sweetly, for Paris is full of birds, the
roses were as fragrant, and the verdure was as deep as ever. Nature
does not stop to lament over any single victim of human society. When
misery is the deepest, there is something awful in this perpetual and
smiling round of natural movements. It teaches profoundly the
insignificance of the atoms of creation.

{rez de chaussee = ground floor}

Adrienne had risen earlier than common, even, this morning, determined
to get through with her task by noon, for she was actually sewing on
the lace, and her impatience would not permit her to resume the work of
the milliner that day, at least. For the last month she had literally
lived on dry bread herself; at first with a few grapes to give her
appetite a little gratification, but toward the last, on nothing but
bread and water. She had not suffered so much from a want of food,
however, as from a want of air and exercise; from unremitting, wasting
toil at a sedentary occupation, from hope deferred and from sleepless
nights. Then she wanted the cheering association of sympathy. She was
strictly alone; with the exception of her short interviews with the
milliner, she conversed with no one. Her grandmother slept most of the
time, and when she did speak, it was with the querulousness of disease,
and not in the tones of affection. This was hardest of all to bear; but
Adrienne did bear up under all, flattering herself that when she could
remove Mad. de la Rocheaimard into the country, her grandmother would
revive and become as fond of her as ever. She toiled on, therefore,
though she could not altogether suppress her tears. Under her painful
and pressing circumstances, the poor girl felt her deepest affliction
to be that she had not time to pray. Her work, now that she had nothing
to expect from the milliner, could not be laid aside for a moment,
though her soul did pour out its longings as she sat plying her needle.

Fortunately, Madame de la Rocheaimard was easy and tranquil the whole
of the last morning. Although nearly exhausted by her toil and the want
of food, for Adrienne had eaten her last morsel, half a roll, at
breakfast, she continued to toil; but the work was nearly done, and the
dear girl's needle fairly flew. Of a sudden she dropped me in her lap
and burst into a flood of tears. Her sobs were hysterical, and I felt
afraid she would faint. A glass of water, however, restored her, and
then this outpouring of an exhausted nature was suppressed. I was
completed! At that instant, if not the richest, I was probably the
neatest and most tasteful handkerchief in Paris. At this critical
moment, Desiree, the commissionaire, entered the room.

From the moment that Adrienne had purchased me, this artful woman had
never lost sight of the intended victim. By means of an occasional
bribe to little Nathalie, she ascertained the precise progress of the
work, and learning that I should probably be ready for sale that very
morning, under the pretence of hiring the apartment, she was shown into
my important presence. A brief apology explained all, and Adrienne
civilly showed her little rooms.

"Next week, madame. I intend to remove to the country with my
grandmother the beginning of the week."

"You will do very right; no one that has the means should stay in Paris
after June. Dieu! What a beautiful handkerchief! Surely—surely—this
is not your work, mademoiselle?"

Adrienne simply answered in the affirmative, and then the
commissionaire's admiration was redoubled. Glancing her eye round the
room, as if to ascertain the probabilities, the woman inquired if the
handkerchief was ordered. Adrienne blushed, but shaking off the
transient feeling of shame, she stated that it was for sale.

"I know a lady who would buy this—a marchande de mode, a friend of
mine, who gives the highest prices that are ever paid for such
articles—for to tell you the truth certain Russian princesses employ
her in all these little matters. Have you thought of your price,
mademoiselle?"

Adrienne's bloom had actually returned, with this unexpected gleam of
hope, for the affair of disposing of me had always appeared awful in
her imagination. She owned the truth frankly, and said that she had not
made herself acquainted with the prices of such things, except as she
had understood what affluent ladies paid for them.

"Ah! that is a different matter," said Desiree, coldly. "These ladies
pay far more than a thing is worth. Now you paid ten francs for the
handkerchief itself."

"Twenty-eight," answered Adrienne, trembling.

"Twenty-eight! mademoiselle, they deceived you shamefully. Ten would
have been dear in the present absence of strangers from Paris. No, call
THAT ten. This lace would probably bring a napoleon—yes, I think it
might bring a napoleon."

Adrienne's heart sunk within her. She had supposed it to be worth at
least five times as much.

"That makes thirty francs," continued Desiree coldly; "and now for the
work. You must have been a fortnight doing all this pretty work."

"Two months, madame," said Adrienne, faintly.

"Two months! Ah! you are not accustomed to this sort of work and are
not adroit, perhaps."

"I worked only in the mornings and late at night; but still think I
worked full hours."

"Yes, you worked when sleepy. Call it a month, then. Thirty days at ten
sous a day make fifteen francs. Ten for the handkerchief, twenty for
the lace, and fifteen for the work, make forty-five francs—parole
d'honneur, it does come to a pretty price for a handkerchief. Si, we
must ask forty-five francs for it, and then we can always abate the
five francs, and take two napoleons."

{parole d'honneur = word of honor, upon my word!}

Adrienne felt sick at heart. Want of nourishment had lessened her
energies, and here came a blow to all her golden visions that was near
overcoming her. She knew that handkerchiefs similar to this frequently
sold for twenty napoleons in the shops, but she did not know how much
the cupidity of trade extracted from the silly and vain in the way of
sheer contributions to avarice. It is probable the unfortunate young
lady would have lost her consciousness, under the weight of this blow,
had it not been for the sound of her grandmother's feeble voice calling
her to the bedside. This was a summons that Adrienne never disregarded,
and, for the moment, she forgot her causes of grief.

"My poor Adrienne," whispered Madame de la Rocheaimard in a tone of
tenderness that her granddaughter had not heard for some weeks, "my
poor Adrienne, the hour is near when we must part—"

"Grand-mamma!—dearest grand-mamma!"

"Nay, love, God wills it. I am old, and I feel death upon me. It is
happy that he comes so gently, and when I am so well prepared to meet
him. The grave has views, that no other scene offers, Adrienne! Noble
blood and ancient renown are as nothing compared to God's mercy and
forgiveness. Pardon me if I have ever taught thy simple heart to dwell
on vanities; but it was a fault of the age. This world is all vanity,
and I can now see it when it is too late. Do not let MY fault be THY
fault, child of my love. Kiss me, Adrienne, pray for my soul when all
is over."

"Yes, dearest, dearest grand-mamma, thou know'st I will."

"Thou must part with the rest of the trousseau to make thyself
comfortable when I am gone."

"I will do as thou wishest, dearest grand-mamma."

"Perhaps it will raise enough to purchase thee four or five hundred
francs of rentes, on which thou may'st live with frugality."

{rentes = annuity, yearly income}

"Perhaps it will, grand-mamma."

"Thou wilt not sell the thimble—THAT thou wilt keep to remember me."

Adrienne bowed her head and groaned. Then her grandmother desired her
to send for a priest, and her thoughts took another direction. It was
fortunate they did, for the spirit of the girl could not have endured
more.

That night Madame de la Rocheaimard died, the wife of the porter, the
bon cure, and Adrienne alone being present. Her last words were a
benediction on the fair and gentle being who had so faithfully and
tenderly nursed her in old age. When all was over, and the body was
laid out, Adrienne asked to be left alone with it. Living or dead, her
grandmother could never be an object of dread to her, and there were
few disposed to watch. In the course of the night, Adrienne even caught
a little sleep, a tribute that nature imperiously demanded of her
weakness.

{bon cure = worthy parish priest}

The following day was one of anguish and embarrassment. The physician,
who always inspects the dead in France, came to make his report. The
arrangements were to be ordered for the funeral. Fortunately, as
Adrienne then thought, Desiree appeared in the course of the morning,
as one who came in consequence of having been present at so much of the
scene of the preceding day. In her character of a commissionaire she
offered her services, and Adrienne, unaccustomed to act for herself in
such offices, was fain to accept them. She received an order, or rather
an answer to a suggestion of her own, and hurried off to give the
necessary directions. Adrienne was now left alone again with the body
of her deceased grandmother. As soon as the excitement ceased, she
began to feel languid, and she became sensible of her own bodily wants.
Food of no sort had passed her lips in more than thirty hours, and her
last meal had been a scanty breakfast of dry bread. As the faintness of
hunger came over her, Adrienne felt for her purse with the intention of
sending Nathalie to a neighboring baker's, when the truth flashed upon
her, in its dreadful reality. She had not a liard. Her last sou had
furnished the breakfast of the preceding day. A sickness like that of
death came over her, when, casting her eyes around her in despair, they
fell on the little table that usually held the nourishment prepared for
her grandmother. A little arrowroot, and a light potage, that contained
bread, still remained. Although it was all that seemed to separate the
girl from death, she hesitated about using it. There was an appearance
of sacrilege, in her eyes, in the act of appropriating these things to
herself. A moment's reflection, however, brought her to a truer state
of mind, and then she felt it to be a duty to that dear parent herself,
to renew her own strength, in order to discharge her duty to the dead.
She ate, therefore, though it was with a species of holy reverence. Her
strength was renewed, and she was enabled to relieve her soul by prayer.

{liard = half-farthing, the tiniest of coins}

"Mademoiselle will have the goodness to give me ten francs," said
Desiree, on her return; "I have ordered every thing that is proper, but
money is wanting to pay for some little articles that will soon come."

"I have no money, Desiree—not even a sou."

"No money, mademoiselle? In the name of heaven, how are we to bury your
grandmother?"

"The handkerchief—"

Desiree shook her head, and saw that she must countermand most of the
orders. Still she was human, and she was a female. She could not
altogether desert one so helpless, in a moment of such extreme
distress. She reflected on the matter for a minute or two, and opened
her mind.

"This handkerchief might sell for forty-five francs, mademoiselle," she
said, "and I will pay that much for it myself, and will charge nothing
for my services to-day. Your dear grandmother must have Christian
burial, that is certain, and poor enough will that be which is had for
two napoleons. What say you, mademoiselle—will you accept the forty
five francs, or would you prefer seeing the marchande de mode?"

"I can see no one now, Desiree. Give me the money, and do honor to the
remains of my dear, dear grandmother."

Adrienne said this with her hands resting on her lap in quiescent
despair. Her eyes were hollow and vacant, her cheeks bloodless, her
mind almost as helpless as that of an infant. Desiree laid down two
napoleons, keeping the five francs to pay for some necessaries, and
then she took me in her hands, as if to ascertain whether she had done
too much. Satisfied on this head, I was carefully replaced in the
basket, when the commissionaire went out again, on her errands,
honorably disposed to be useful. Still she did not deem it necessary to
conceal her employer's poverty, which was soon divulged to the
porteress, and by her to the bourgeois.

{bourgeois = towns-people, neighbors}

Adrienne had now the means of purchasing food, but, ignorant how much
might be demanded on behalf of the approaching ceremony, she
religiously adhered to the use of dry bread. When Desiree returned in
the evening, she told the poor girl that the convoi was arranged for
the following morning, that she had ordered all in the most economical
way, but that thirty-five francs were the lowest sou for which the
funeral could be had. Adrienne counted out the money, and then found
herself the mistress of just FOUR FRANCS TEN SOUS. When Desiree took
her leave for the night, she placed me in her basket, and carried me to
her own lodgings, in virtue of her purchase.

{convoi = funeral; lowest sou = cheapest price}

I was laid upon a table where I could look through an open window, up
at the void of heaven. It was glittering with those bright stars which
the astronomers tell us are suns of other systems, and the scene
gradually drew me to reflections on that eternity which is before us.
My feelings got to be gradually soothed, as I remembered the moment of
time that all are required to endure injustice and wrongs on earth.
Some such reflections are necessary to induce us to submit to the
mysterious reign of Providence, whose decrees so often seem unequal,
and whose designs are so inscrutable. By remembering what a speck is
time, as compared with eternity, and that "God chasteneth those he
loveth," the ills of life may be borne, even with joy.

The manner in which Desiree disposed of me, shall be related in another
number.

{another number = in the Graham's Magazine periodical version, not
divided into chapters, this paragraph closed the first of the four
installments in which the story was printed; in later book versions it
was changed to read "in the next chapter"}

CHAPTER VIII.

The reader is not to infer that Desiree was unusually mercenary. That
she was a little addicted to this weakness, is true—who ever knew a
commissionaire that was not? But she had her moments of benevolence, as
well as others, and had really made some sacrifice of her time, and
consequently of her interests, in order to serve Adrienne in her
distress. As for the purchase of myself, that was in the way of her
commerce; and it is seldom, indeed, that philanthropy can overcome the
habits of trade.

Desiree was not wholly without means, and she was in no hurry to reap
the benefit of her purchase. I remained in her possession, according to
my calculation, some two or three years before she ever took me out of
the drawer in which I had been deposited for safe keeping. I was
considered a species of corps de reserve. At the end of that period,
however, her thoughts recurred to her treasure, and an occasion soon
offered for turning me to account. I was put into the reticule, and
carried about, in readiness for any suitable bargain that might turn up.

{corps de reserve = reserve corps; reticule = a large pocketbook}

One day Desiree and I were on the Boulevards Italiens together, when a
figure caught the commissionaire's eye that sent her across the street
in a great hurry. I scarcely know how to describe this person, who, to
my simple eyes, had the appearance of a colonel of the late Royal
Guards, or, at least, of an attache of one of the northern legations.
He was dressed in the height of the latest fashion, as well as he knew
how to be; wore terrible moustaches, and had a rare provision of rings,
eye-glasses, watch-guards, chains, &c.

{Boulevards Italiens = a fashionable Paris street; attache = a
diplomat—European diplomats at this period often wore uniforms}

"Bon jour, monsieur," exclaimed Desiree, in haste, "parole d' honneur,
I scarcely knew you! I have been waiting for your return from Lyons
with the most lively impatience, for, to tell you the truth, I have the
greatest bijou for your American ladies that ever came out of a
bleaching ground—un mouchoir de poche."

{bijou = jewel; mouchoir de poche = pocket handkerchief}

"Doucement—doucement, ma bonne," interrupted the other, observing that
the woman was about to exhibit me on the open Boulevards, an expose for
which he had no longings, "you can bring it to my lodgings—"

{doucement... = not so fast, my good woman; expose = public display}

"Rue de Clery, numero cent vingt—"

{Rue de Clery... = Clery Street, number one twenty}

"Not at all, my good Desiree. You must know I have transacted all my
ordinary business—made my purchases, and am off for New York in the
next packet—"

{packet = ship sailing on a fixed schedule}

"Mais, le malle, monsieur?"

{Mais, le malle... = But, what about your trunk, sir?}

"Yes, the trunk will have a corner in it for any thing particular, as
you say. I shall go to court this evening, to a great ball, Madame la
Marquise de Dolomien and the Aide de Camp de Service having just
notified me that I am invited. To be frank with you, Desiree, I am
lodging in la Rue de la Paix, and appear, just now, as a mere traveler.
You will inquire for le Colonel Silky, when you call."

{Aide de Camp de Service = duty officer of the French royal court}

"Le Colonel Silky!" repeated Desiree with a look of admiration, a
little mingled with contempt.

"De la garde nationale Americaine," answered Mr. Silky, smiling. He
then gave the woman his new address, and appointed an hour to see her.

{De la garde nationale Americaine = of the American national
guard—Cooper is here satirizing the pretensions and gaudy uniforms of
civilians holding nominal commissions as "Colonels" of American state
militias}

Desiree was punctual to a minute. The porter, the garcons, the
bourgeois, all knew le Colonel Silky, who was now a great man, wore
moustaches, and went to court—as the court was. In a minute the
commissionaire was in the colonel's ante-chamber. This distinguished
officer had a method in his madness. He was not accustomed to keeping a
body servant, and, as his aim was to make a fortune, will ye nill ye,
he managed, even now, in his hours of pride and self-indulgence, to get
along without one. It was not many moments, therefore, before he came
out and ushered Desiree himself into his salon; a room of ten feet by
fourteen, with a carpet that covered just eight feet by six, in its
centre. Now that they were alone, in this snuggery, which seemed barely
large enough to contain so great a man's moustaches, the parties
understood each other without unnecessary phrases, and I was, at once,
produced.

{as the court was = the Royal Court of King Louis Philippe prided
itself on its simplicity and informality; garcons, bourgeois = waiters,
neighbors; salon = living room}

Colonel Silky was evidently struck with my appearance. An officer of
his readiness and practice saw at once that I might be made to diminish
no small part of the ways and means of his present campaign, and
precisely in proportion as he admired me, he began to look cold and
indifferent. This management could not deceive me, my clairvoyance
defying any such artifices; but it had a sensible effect on Desiree,
who, happening very much to want money for a particular object just at
that moment, determined, on the spot, to abate no less than fifty
francs from the price she had intended to ask. This was deducting five
francs more than poor Adrienne got for the money she had expended for
her beautiful lace, and for all her toil, sleepless nights, and tears;
a proof of the commissionaire's scale of doing business. The bargain
was now commenced in earnest, offering an instructive scene of French
protestations, assertions, contradictions and volubility on one side,
and of cold, seemingly phlegmatic, but wily Yankee calculation, on the
other. Desiree had set her price at one hundred and fifty francs, after
abating the fifty mentioned, and Colonel Silky had early made up his
mind to give only one hundred. After making suitable allowances for my
true value before I was embellished, the cost of the lace and of the
work, Desiree was not far from the mark; but the Colonel saw that she
wanted money, and he knew that two napoleons and a half, with his
management, would carry him from Paris to Havre. It is true he had
spent the difference that morning on an eye-glass that he never used,
or when he did it was only to obscure his vision; but the money was not
lost, as it aided in persuading the world he was a colonel and was
afflicted with that genteel defect, an imperfect vision. These extremes
of extravagance and meanness were not unusual in his practice. The one,
in truth, being a consequence of the other.

{management = in Cooper's time, a word suggesting conniving or
unscrupulous manipulation; Havre = le Havre, an important French port}

"You forget the duty, Desiree," observed the military trader; "this
compromise law is a thousand times worse than any law we have ever had
in America."

{compromise law = the American Tariff Act of 1832, which reduced
tariffs on some items, but retained the high customs duties on the
import of textile products}

"The duty!" repeated the woman, with an incredulous smile; "monsieur,
you are not so young as to pay any duty on a pocket-handkerchief! Ma
foi, I will bring twenty—oui, a thousand from England itself, and the
douaniers shall not stop one."

{douaniers = customs officials}

"Ay, but we don't smuggle in America," returned the colonel, with an
aplomb that might have done credit to Vidocq himself; "in our
republican country the laws are all in all."

{Vidocq = Francois Vidocq (1775-1857), a senior French police official
who was secretly a burglar, and who "investigated" his own crimes for a
long time before being exposed}

"Why do so many of your good republicans dress so that the rue de Clery
don't know them, and then go to the chateau?" demanded the
commissionaire, very innocently, as to appearance at least.

{chateau = palace}

"Bah! there are the five napoleons—if you want them, take them—if
not, I care little about it, my invoice being all closed."

Desiree never accepted money more reluctantly. Instead of making one
hundred and fifty-five francs out of the toil and privations, and
self-denial of poor Adrienne, she found her own advantages unexpectedly
lessened to fifty-five; or, only a trifle more than one hundred per
cent. But the colonel was firm, and, for once, her cupidity was
compelled to succumb. The money was paid, and I became the vassal of
Colonel Silky; a titular soldier, but a traveling trader, who never
lost sight of the main chance either in his campaigns, his journeys, or
his pleasures.

To own the truth, Colonel Silky was delighted with me. No girl could be
a better judge of the ARTICLE, and all his cultivated taste ran into
the admiration of GOODS. I was examined with the closest scrutiny; my
merits were inwardly applauded, and my demerits pronounced to be
absolutely none. In short, I was flattered; for, it must be confessed,
the commendation of even a fool is grateful. So far from placing me in
a trunk, or a drawer, the colonel actually put me in his pocket, though
duly enveloped and with great care, and for some time I trembled in
every delicate fibre, lest, in a moment of forgetfulness, he might use
me. But my new master had no such intention. His object in taking me
out was to consult a sort of court commissionaire, with whom he had
established certain relations, and that, too, at some little cost, on
the propriety of using me himself that evening at the chateau of the
King of the French. Fortunately, his monitress, though by no means of
the purest water, knew better than to suffer her eleve to commit so
gross a blunder, and I escaped the calamity of making my first
appearance at court under the auspices of such a patron.

{eleve = pupil}

There was a moment, too, when the colonel thought of presenting me to
Madame de Dolomien, by the way of assuring his favor in the royal
circle, but when he came to count up the money he should lose in the
way of profits, this idea became painful, and it was abandoned. As
often happened with this gentleman, he reasoned so long in all his acts
of liberality, that he supposed a sufficient sacrifice had been made in
the mental discussions, and he never got beyond what surgeons call the
"first intention" of his moral cures. The evening he went to court,
therefore, I was carefully consigned to a carton in the colonel's
trunk, whence I did not again issue until my arrival in America. Of the
voyage, therefore, I have little to say, not having had a sight of the
ocean at all. I cannot affirm that I was absolutely sea-sick, but, on
the other hand, I cannot add that I was perfectly well during any part
of the passage. The pent air of the state-room, and a certain heaviness
about the brain, quite incapacitated me from enjoying any thing that
passed, and that was a happy moment when our trunk was taken on deck to
be examined. The custom-house officers at New York were not men likely
to pick out a pocket-handkerchief from a gentleman's—I beg pardon,
from a colonel's—wardrobe, and I passed unnoticed among sundry other
of my employer's speculations. I call the colonel my EMPLOYER, though
this was not strictly true; for, Heaven be praised! he never did employ
me; but ever since my arrival in America, my gorge has so risen against
the word "master," that I cannot make up my mind to write it. I know
there is an ingenious substitute, as the following little dialogue will
show, but my early education under the astronomer and the delicate
minded Adrienne, has rendered me averse to false taste, and I find the
substitute as disagreeable as the original. The conversation to which I
allude, occurred between me and a very respectable looking shirt, that
I happened to be hanging next to on a line, a few days after my
arrival; the colonel having judged it prudent to get me washed and
properly ironed, before he carried me into the "market."

"Who is your BOSS, pocket-handkerchief?" demanded the shirt, a perfect
stranger to me, by the way, for I had never seen him before the
accidents of the wash-tub brought us in collision; "who is your boss,
pocket-handkerchief, I say?—you are so very fine, I should like to
know something of your history."

From all I had heard and read, I was satisfied my neighbor was a Yankee
shirt, both from his curiosity and from his abrupt manner of asking
questions; still I was at a loss to know the meaning of the word BOSS,
my clairvoyance being totally at fault. It belongs to no language known
to the savans or academicians.

{savans = scholars}

"I am not certain, sir," I answered, "that I understand your meaning.
What is a BOSS?"

{boss = Cooper was annoyed by American euphemisms, such as using the
Dutch word "boss" in place of "master"—a custom he blamed largely on
New England "Yankees"}

"Oh! that's only a republican word for 'master.' Now, Judge Latitat is
MY boss, and a very good one he is, with the exception of his sitting
so late at night at his infernal circuits, by the light of miserable
tallow candles. But all the judges are alike for that, keeping a poor
shirt up sometimes until midnight, listening to cursed dull lawyers,
and prosy, caviling witnesses."

{circuits = American "circuit judges" travelled from town to town,
holding court in each and sleeping at local inns and taverns}

"I beg you to recollect, sir, that I am a female pocket-handkerchief,
and persons of your sex are bound to use temperate and proper language
in the presence of ladies.

"Yes, I see you are feminine, by your ornaments—still, you might tell
a fellow who is your boss?"

"I belong, at present, to Colonel Silky, if that is what you mean; but
I presume some fair lady will soon do me the honor of transferring me
to her own wardrobe. No doubt my future employer—is not that the
word?—will be one of the most beautiful and distinguished ladies of
New York."

"No question of that, as money makes both beauty and distinction in
this part of the world, and it's not a dollar that will buy you.
COLONEL Silky? I don't remember the name—which of OUR editors is he?"

{Cooper is ridiculing the habit of newspaper editors of seeking
popularity by serving in the militia and thus receiving the title of
"Colonel"}

"I don't think he is an editor at all. At least, I never heard he was
employed about any publication, and, to own the truth, he does not
appear to me to be particularly qualified for such a duty, either by
native capacity, or, its substitute, education."

"Oh! that makes no great difference—half the corps is exactly in the
same predicament. I'fegs! if we waited for colonels, or editors either,
in this country, until we got such as were qualified, we should get no
news, and be altogether without politics, and the militia would soon be
in an awful state."

"This is very extraordinary! So you do not wait, but take them as they
come. And what state is your militia actually in?"

"Awful! It is what my boss, the judge, sometimes calls a 'statu quo.'"

{'statu quo' = in the same state as always (Latin)}

"And the newspapers—and the news—and the politics?"

"Why, they are NOT in 'statu quo'—but in a 'semper eadem'—I beg
pardon, do you understand Latin?"

"No, sir—ladies do not often study the dead languages."

"If they did they would soon bring 'em to life! 'Semper eadem' is Latin
for 'worse and worse.' The militia is drilling into a 'statu quo,' and
the press is enlightening mankind with a 'semper eadem.'"

{'Semper eadem' = the usual meaning is "ever the same"
(Latin)—presumably Cooper's talking shirt is being ironical,
suggesting that that "worse and worse" is the constant condition of the
press}

After properly thanking my neighbor for these useful explanations, we
naturally fell into discourse about matters and things in general, the
weather in America being uniformly too fine to admit of discussion.

"Pray, sir," said I, trembling lest my BOSS might be a colonel of the
editorial corps, after all—"pray, sir," said I, "is it expected in
this country that the wardrobe should entertain the political
sentiments of its boss?"

"I rather think not, unless it might be in high party times; or, in the
case of editors, and such extreme patriots. I have several relatives
that belong to the corps, and they all tell me that while their bosses
very frequently change their coats, they are by no means so particular
about changing their shirts. But you are of foreign birth, ma'am, I
should think by your dress and appearance?"

{change their coats.... = i.e., editors frequently change political
sides, but they are not very careful about their personal hygiene}

"Yes, sir, I came quite recently from France; though, my employer being
American, I suppose I am entitled to the rights of citizenship. Are you
European, also?"

"No, ma'am; I am native and to the 'MANOR born,' as the modern
Shakspeare has it. Is Louis Philippe likely to maintain the throne, in
France?"

"That is not so certain, sir, by what I learn, as that the throne is
likely to maintain Louis Philippe. To own the truth to you, I am a
Carlist, as all genteel articles are, and I enter but little into the
subject of Louis Philippe's reign."

{Carlist = supporter of King Charles X of France, who was deposed in
1830 by King Louis Philippe}

This remark made me melancholy, by reviving the recollection of
Adrienne, and the conversation ceased. An hour or two later, I was
removed from the line, properly ironed, and returned to my boss. The
same day I was placed in a shop in Broadway, belonging to a firm of
which I now understood the colonel was a sleeping partner. A suitable
entry was made against me, in a private memorandum book, which, as I
once had an opportunity of seeing it, I will give here.

Super-extraordinary Pocket-Handkerchief, French cambric, trimmed and
worked, in account with Bobbinet & Gull.

DR.
To money paid first cost—francs 100, at 5.25, — $19.04
To interest on same for — 00.00
To portion of passage money, — 00.04
To porterage, — 00.00 1/4
To washing and making up, — 00.25
(Mem.—See if a deduction cannot be made from this charge.)

CR.
By cash, for allowing Miss Thimble to copy pattern—not to be worked
until our article is sold, — $1. 00
By cash for sale, &c. —

{in account with.... = this and subsequent "accounts" are presented by
Cooper in tabular form, generally without decimal points in the
figures; we have inserted decimals and omitted zeros to make them more
readable}

Thus the account stood the day I was first offered to the admiration of
the fair of New York. Mr. Bobbinet, however, was in no hurry to exhibit
me, having several articles of less beauty, that he was anxious to get
off first. For my part, I was as desirous of being produced, as ever a
young lady was to come out; and then my companions in the drawer were
not of the most agreeable character. We were all pocket-handkerchiefs,
together, and all of French birth. Of the whole party, I was the only
one that had been worked by a real lady, and consequently my education
was manifestly superior to those of my companions. THEY could scarcely
be called comme il faut, at all; though, to own the truth, I am afraid
there is tant soit peu de vulgarity about all WORKED
pocket-handkerchiefs. I remember that, one day, when Madame de la
Rocheaimard and Adrienne were discussing the expediency of buying our
whole piece, with a view of offering us to their benefactress, the
former, who had a fine tact in matters of this sort, expressed a doubt
whether the dauphine would be pleased with such an offering.

"Her Royal Highness, like all cultivated minds, looks for fitness in
her ornaments and tastes. What fitness is there, ma chere, in
converting an article of real use, and which should not be paraded to
one's associates, into an article of senseless luxury. I know there are
two doctrines on this important point—"

{ma chere = my dear}

But, as I shall have occasion, soon, to go into the whole philosophy of
this matter, when I come to relate the manner of my next purchase, I
will not stop here to relate all that Madame de la Rocheaimard said. It
is sufficient that she, a woman of tact in such matters at least, had
strong doubts concerning the TASTE and propriety of using worked
pocket-handkerchiefs, at all.

My principal objection to my companions in the drawer was their
incessant senseless repinings about France, and their abuse of the
country in which they were to pass their lives. I could see enough in
America to find fault with, through the creaks of the drawer, and if an
American, I might have indulged a little in the same way myself, for I
am not one of those who think fault-finding belongs properly to the
stranger, and not to the native. It is the proper office of the latter,
as it is his duty to amend these faults; the traveler being bound in
justice to look at the good as well as the evil. But, according to my
companions, there was NOTHING good in America—the climate, the people,
the food, the morals, the laws, the dress, the manners, and the tastes,
were all infinitely worse than those they had been accustomed to. Even
the physical proportions of the population were condemned, without
mercy. I confess I was surprised at hearing the SIZE of the Americans
sneered at by POCKET-HANDKERCHIEFS, as I remember to have read that the
NOSES of the New Yorkers, in particular, were materially larger than
common. When the supercilious and vapid point out faults, they ever run
into contradictions and folly; it is only under the lash of the
discerning and the experienced, that we betray by our writhings the
power of the blow we receive.

CHAPTER IX.

I might have been a fortnight in the shop, when I heard a voice as
gentle and lady-like as that of Adrienne, inquiring for
pocket-handkerchiefs. My heart fairly beat for joy; for, to own the
truth, I was getting to be wearied to death with the garrulous folly of
my companions. They had so much of the couturieres about them! not one
of the whole party ever having been a regular employee in genteel life.
Their niaisiries were endless, and there was just as much of the low
bred anticipation as to their future purchases, as one sees at the
balls of the Champs Elysee on the subject of partners. The word
"pocket-handkerchief," and that so sweetly pronounced, drew open our
drawer, as it might be, instinctively. Two or three dozen of us, all of
exquisite fineness, were laid upon the counter, myself and two or three
more of the better class being kept a little in the back ground, as a
skillful general holds his best troops in reserve.

The customers were sisters; that was visible at a glance. Both were
pretty, almost beautiful—and there was an air of simplicity about
their dress, a quiet and unobtrusive dignity in their manners, which at
once announced them to be real ladies. Even the tones of their voices
were polished, a circumstance that I think one is a little apt to
notice in New York. I discovered, in the course of the conversation,
that they were the daughters of a gentleman of very large estate, and
belonged to the true elite of the country. The manner in which the
clerks received them, indeed, proclaimed this; for, though their other
claims might not have so promptly extracted this homage, their known
wealth would.

Mr. Bobbinet attended these customers in person. Practiced in all that
portion of human knowledge which appertains to a salesman, he let the
sweet girls select two or three dozen handkerchiefs of great beauty,
but totally without ornament, and even pay for them, before he said a
word on the subject of the claims of his reserved corps. When he
thought the proper moment had arrived, however, one of the least
decorated of our party was offered to the consideration of the young
ladies. The sisters were named Anne and Maria, and I could see by the
pleasure that beamed in the soft blue eyes of the former, that she was
quite enchanted with the beauty of the article laid before her so
unexpectedly. I believe it is in FEMALE "human nature" to admire every
thing that is graceful and handsome, and especially when it takes the
form of needle-work. The sweet girls praised handkerchief after
handkerchief, until I was laid before them, when their pleasure
extracted exclamations of delight. All was done so quietly, however,
and in so lady-like a manner, that the attention of no person in the
shop was drawn to them by this natural indulgence of surprise. Still I
observed that neither of the young lades inquired the PRICES, these
being considerations that had no influence on the intrinsic value, in
their eyes; while the circumstance caused my heart to sink within me,
as it clearly proved they did not intend to purchase, and I longed to
become the property of the gentle, serene-eyed Anne. After thanking Mr.
Bobbinet for the trouble he had taken, they ordered their purchases
sent home, and were about to quit the shop.

"Can't I persuade you to take THIS?" demanded Bobbinet, as they were
turning away. "There is not its equal in America. Indeed, one of the
house, our Colonel Silky, who has just returned from Paris, says it was
worked expressly for the dauphine, who was prevented from getting it by
the late revolution."

"It IS a pity so much lace and such exquisite work should be put on a
pocket-handkerchief," said Anne, almost involuntarily. "I fear if they
were on something more suitable, I might buy them."

A smile, a slight blush, and curtsy, concluded the interview; and the
young ladies hastily left the shop. Mr. Bobbinet was disappointed, as,
indeed, was Col. Silky, who was present, en amateur; but the matter
could not be helped, as these were customers who acted and thought for
themselves, and all the oily persuasion of shop-eloquence could not
influence them.

{en amateur = in the guise of a connoisseur}

"It is quite surprising, colonel," observed Mr. Bobbinet, when his
customers were properly out of hearing, "that THESE young ladies should
let such an article slip through their fingers. Their father is one of
the richest men we have; and yet they never even asked the price."

"I fancy it was not so much the PRICE that held 'em back," observed the
colonel, in his elegant way, "as something else. There are a sort of
customers that don't buy promiscuously; they do every thing by rule.
They don't believe that a nightcap is intended for a bed-quilt."

Bobbinet & Co. did not exactly understand his more sophisticated
partner; but before he had time to ask an explanation, the appearance
of another customer caused his face to brighten, and changed the
current of his thoughts. The person who now entered was an exceedingly
brilliant looking girl of twenty, dressed in the height of fashion, and
extremely well, though a severe critic might have thought she was OVER
dressed for the streets, still she had alighted from a carriage. Her
face was decidedly handsome, and her person exquisitely proportioned.
As a whole, I had scarcely ever seen a young creature that could lay
claim to more of the loveliness of her sex. Both the young ladies who
had just left us were pleasing and pretty; and to own the truth, there
was an air of modest refinement about them, that was not so apparent in
this new visiter; but the dazzling appearance of the latter, at first,
blinded me to her faults, and I saw nothing but her perfection. The
interest manifested by the master—I beg his pardon, the boss of the
store—and the agitation among the clerks, very plainly proved that
much was expected from the visit of this young lady, who was addressed,
with a certain air of shop-familiarity, as Miss Halfacre—a familiarity
that showed she was an habituee of the place, and considered a good
customer.

Luckily for the views of Bobbinet & Co., we were all still lying on the
counter. This is deemed a fortunate circumstance in the contingencies
of this species of trade, since it enables the dealer to offer his
uncalled-for wares in the least suspicious and most natural manner. It
was fortunate, also, that I lay at the bottom of the little pile—a
climax being quite as essential in sustaining an extortionate price, as
in terminating with due effect, a poem, a tragedy, or a romance.

"Good morning, Miss Halfacre," said Mr. Bobbinet, bowing and smiling;
if his face had been half as honest as it professed to be, it would
have GRINNED. "I am glad you have come in at this moment, as we are
about to put on sale some of the rarest articles, in the way of
pocket-handkerchiefs, that have ever come to this market. The Misses
Burton have just seen them, and THEY pronounce them the most beautiful
articles of the sort they have ever seen; and I believe they have been
over half the world."

"And did they take any, Mr. Bobbinet? The Miss Burtons are thought to
have taste."

"They have not exactly PURCHASED, but I believe each of them has a
particular article in her eye. Here is one, ma'am, that is rather
prettier than any you have yet seen in New York. The price is SIXTY
dollars."

The word SIXTY was emphasized in a way to show the importance that was
attached to PRICE—that being a test of more than common importance
with the present customer. I sighed when I remembered that poor
Adrienne had received but about ten dollars for ME—an article worth so
much more than that there exhibited.

"It is really very pretty, Mr. Bobbinet, very pretty, but Miss Monson
bought one not quite as pretty, at Lace's; and SHE payed SIXTY-FIVE, if
I am not mistaken."

"I dare say; we have them at much higher prices. I showed YOU this only
that you might see that OUR SIXTIES are as handsome as MR. LACE'S
sixty-FIVES. What do you think of THIS?"

"That IS a jewel! What IS the price, Mr. Bobbinet?"

"Why, we will let YOU have it for seventy, though I do think it ought
to bring five more."

"Surely you do not abate on pocket-handkerchiefs! One doesn't like to
have such a thing TOO low."

"Ah, I may as well come to the point at once with such a customer as
yourself, Miss Halfacre; here is the article on which I pride myself.
THAT article never WAS equalled in this market, and never WILL be."

I cannot repeat half the exclamations of delight which escaped the fair
Eudosia, when I first burst on her entranced eye. She turned me over
and over, examined me with palpitating bosom, and once I thought she
was about to kiss me; then, in a trembling voice, she demanded the
price.

"ONE HUNDRED, Miss Eudosia, to the last cent; then we scarcely make a
living profit."

"Why, Mr. Bobbinet, this is the highest priced handkerchief that was
ever sold in New York." This was said with a sort of rapture, the fair
creature feeling all the advantage of having so good an opportunity of
purchasing so dear an article.

"In America, ma'am. It is the highest priced handkerchief, by twenty
dollars, that ever crossed the Atlantic. The celebrated Miss Jewel's,
of Boston, only cost seventy-nine."

"Only! Oh, Mr. Bobbinet, I MUST have it. It is a perfect treasure!"

"Shall I send it, Miss Eudosia; or don't you like to trust it out of
your sight?"

"Not yet, sir. To own the truth, I have not so much money. I only came
out to buy a few trifles, and brought but fifty dollars with me; and Pa
insists on having no bills. I never knew any body as particular as Pa;
but I will go instantly home and show him the importance of this
purchase. You will not let the handkerchief be seen for ONE hour—only
ONE hour—and then you shall hear from me."

To this Bobbinet assented. The young lady tripped into her carriage,
and was instantly whirled from the door. In precisely forty-three
minutes, a maid entered, half out of breath, and laid a note on the
counter. The latter contained Mr. Halfacre's check for one hundred
dollars, and a request from the fair Eudosia that I might be delivered
to her messenger. Every thing was done as she had desired, and, in five
minutes, I was going up Broadway as fast as Honor O'Flagherty's (for
such was the name of the messenger) little dumpy legs could carry me.

CHAPTER X.

Mr. Henry Half acre was a speculator in town-lots—a profession that
was, just then, in high repute in the city of New York. For farms, and
all the more vulgar aspects of real estate, he had a sovereign
contempt; but offer him a bit of land that could be measured by feet
and inches, and he was your man. Mr. Halfacre inherited nothing; but he
was a man of what are called energy and enterprise. In other words, he
had a spirit for running in debt, and never shrunk from jeoparding
property that, in truth, belonged to his creditors. The very morning
that his eldest child, Eudosia, made her valuable acquisition, in my
person, Henry Halfacre, Esq., was the owner of several hundred lots on
the island of Manhattan; of one hundred and twenty-three in the city of
Brooklyn; of nearly as many in Williamsburg; of large undivided
interests in Milwaukie, Chicago, Rock River, Moonville, and other
similar places; besides owning a considerable part of a place called
Coney Island. In a word, the landed estate of Henry Halfacre, Esq.,
"inventoried," as he expressed it, just two millions, six hundred and
twelve thousand dollars; a handsome sum, it must be confessed, for a
man who, when he began his beneficent and energetic career in this
branch of business, was just twenty-three thousand, four hundred and
seventeen dollars worse than nothing. It is true, that there was some
drawback on all this prosperity; Mr. Halfacre's bonds, notes,
mortgages, and other liabilities, making a sum total that amounted to
the odd six hundred thousand dollars; this still left him, however, a
handsome paper balance of two millions.

Notwithstanding the amount of his "bills payable," Mr. Halfacre
considered himself a very prudent man: first, because he insisted on
having no book debts; second, because he always took another man's
paper for a larger amount than he had given of his own, for any
specific lot or lots; thirdly, and lastly, because he was careful to
"extend himself," at the risk of other persons. There is no question,
had all his lots been sold as he had inventoried them; had his debts
been paid; and had he not spent his money a little faster than it was
bona fide made, that Henry Halfacre, Esq. would have been a very rich
man. As he managed, however, by means of getting portions of the paper
he received discounted, to maintain a fine figure account in the bank,
and to pay all current demands, he began to be known as the RICH Mr.
Halfacre. But one of his children, the fair Eudosia, was out; and as
she had some distance to make in the better society of the town, ere
she could pass for aristocratic, it was wisely determined that a golden
bridge should be thrown across the dividing chasm. A hundred-dollar
pocket-handkerchief, it was hoped, would serve for the key-stone, and
then all the ends of life would be attained. As to a husband, a pretty
girl like Eudosia, and the daughter of a man of "four figure" lots,
might get one any day.

{was out = was a debutante, had been presented to society}

Honor O'Flagherty was both short-legged and short-breathed. She felt
the full importance of her mission; and having an extensive
acquaintance among the other Milesians of the town, and of her class,
she stopped no less than eleven times to communicate the magnitude of
Miss Dosie's purchase. To two particular favorites she actually showed
me, under solemn promise of secrecy; and to four others she promised a
peep some day, after her bossee had fairly worn me. In this manner my
arrival was circulated prematurely in certain coteries, the pretty
mouths and fine voices that spoke of my marvels, being quite
unconscious that they were circulating news that had reached their ears
via Honor O'Flagherty, Biddy Noon, and Kathleen Brady.

Mr. Halfacre occupied a very GENTEEL residence in Broadway, where he
and his enjoyed the full benefit of all the dust, noise, and commotion
of that great thoroughfare. This house had been purchased and
mortgaged, generally simultaneous operations with this great operator,
as soon as he had "inventoried" half a million. It was a sort of patent
of nobility to live in Broadway; and the acquisition of such a
residence was like the purchase of a marquiseta in Italy. When Eudosia
was fairly in possession of a hundred-dollar pocket-handkerchief, the
great seal might be said to be attached to the document that was to
elevate the Halfacres throughout all future time.

{marquiseta = presumably the residence or palace of a Marquis}

Now the beautiful Eudosia—for beautiful, and even lovely, this
glorious-looking creature was, in spite of a very badly modulated
voice, certain inroads upon the fitness of things in the way of
expression, and a want of a knowledge of the finesse of fine life—now
the beautiful Eudosia had an intimate friend named Clara Caverly, who
was as unlike her as possible, in character, education, habits, and
appearance; and yet who was firmly her friend. The attachment was one
of childhood and accident—the two girls having been neighbors and
school-fellows until they had got to like each other, after the manner
in which young people form such friendships, to wear away under the
friction of the world, and the pressure of time. Mr. Caverly was a
lawyer of good practice, fair reputation, and respectable family. His
wife happened to be a lady from her cradle; and the daughter had
experienced the advantage of as great a blessing. Still Mr. Caverly was
what the world of New York, in 1832, called poor; that is to say, he
had no known bank-stock, did not own a lot on the island, was director
of neither bank nor insurance company, and lived in a modest two-story
house, in White street. It is true his practice supported his family,
and enabled him to invest in bonds and mortgages two or three thousand
a-year; and he owned the fee of some fifteen or eighteen farms in
Orange county, that were falling in from three-lives leases, and which
had been in his family ever since the seventeenth century. But, at a
period of prosperity like that which prevailed in 1832, 3, 4, 5, and 6,
the hereditary dollar was not worth more than twelve and a half cents,
as compared with the "inventoried" dollar. As there is something, after
all, in a historical name, and the Caverleys [sic] still had the best
of it, in the way of society, Eudosia was permitted to continue the
visits in White street, even after her own family were in full
possession in Broadway, and Henry Halfacre, Esq., had got to be
enumerated among the Manhattan nabobs. Clara Caverly was in Broadway
when Honor O'Flagherty arrived with me, out of breath, in consequence
of the shortness of her legs, and the necessity of making up for lost
time.

{owned the fee...falling in from three-life leases = i.e., Mr. Caverly
owned farms in Orange County that had been leased out for long periods
(the lives of three persons named at the moment the lease was granted)
but which were now about to revert to him—such long-term leases, in
the Hudson Valley, led to the so-called anti-rent war that was breaking
out at the time Cooper wrote this book; twelve and a half cents = an
English shilling, still often used in conversation in America; nabobs =
rich men (usually businessmen of recent affluence)}

"There, Miss Dosie," cried the exulting housemaid, for such was Honor's
domestic rank, though preferred to so honorable and confidential a
mission—"There, Miss Dosie, there it is, and it's a jewel."

{preferred = promoted}

"What has Honor brought you NOW?" asked Clara Caverly in her quiet way,
for she saw by the brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks of her friend that
it was something the other would have pleasure in conversing about.
"You make so many purchases, dear Eudosia, that I should think you
would weary of them."

"What, weary of beautiful dresses? Never, Clara, never! That might do
for White street, but in Broadway one is never tired of such
things—see," laying me out at full length in her lap, "this is a
pocket-handkerchief—I wish your opinion of it."

Clara examined me very closely, and, in spite of something like a
frown, and an expression of dissatisfaction that gathered about her
pretty face—for Clara was pretty, too—I could detect some of the
latent feelings of the sex, as she gazed at my exquisite lace, perfect
ornamental work, and unequaled fineness. Still, her education and
habits triumphed, and she would not commend what she regarded as
ingenuity misspent, and tasteless, because senseless, luxury.

"This handkerchief cost ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS, Clara," said Eudosia,
deliberately and with emphasis, imitating, as near as possible, the
tone of Bobbinet & Co.

"Is it possible, Eudosia! What a sum to pay for so useless a thing!"

"Useless! Do you call a pocket-handkerchief useless?"

"Quite so, when it is made in a way to render it out of the question to
put it to the uses for which it was designed. I should as soon think of
trimming gum shoes with satin, as to trim a handkerchief in that style."

"Style? Yes, I flatter myself it IS style to have a handkerchief that
cost a hundred dollars. Why, Clara Caverly, the highest priced thing of
this sort that was ever before sold in New York only came to
seventy-nine dollars. Mine is superior to all, by twenty-one dollars!"

Clara Caverly sighed. It was not with regret, or envy, or any unworthy
feeling, however; it was a fair, honest, moral sigh, that had its birth
in the thought of how much good a hundred dollars might have done,
properly applied. It was under the influence of this feeling, too, that
she said, somewhat inopportunely it must be confessed, though quite
innocently—

"Well, Eudosia, I am glad you can afford such a luxury, at all events.
Now is a good time to get your subscription to the Widows' and Orphans'
Society. Mrs. Thoughtful has desired me to ask for it half a dozen
times; I dare say it has escaped you that you are quite a twelvemonth
in arrear."

"NOW a good time to ask for three dollars! What, just when I've paid a
hundred dollars for a pocket-handkerchief? That was not said with your
usual good sense, my dear. People must be MADE of money to pay out so
much at one time."

"When may I tell Mrs. Thoughtful, then, that you will send it to her?"

"I am sure that is more than I can say. Pa will be in no hurry to give
me more money soon, and I want, at this moment, near a hundred dollars'
worth of articles of dress to make a decent appearance. The Society can
be in no such hurry for its subscriptions; they must amount to a good
deal."

"Not if never paid. Shall I lend you the money—my mother gave me ten
dollars this morning, to make a few purchases, which I can very well do
without until you can pay me."

"DO, dear girl—you are always one of the best creatures in the world.
How much is it? three dollars I believe."

"Six, if you pay the past and present year. I will pay Mrs. Thoughtful
before I go home. But, dear Eudosia, I wish you had not bought that
foolish pocket-handkerchief."

"Foolish! Do you call a handkerchief with such lace, and all this
magnificent work on it, and which cost a HUNDRED DOLLARS, foolish? Is
it foolish to have money, or to be thought rich?"

"Certainly not the first, though it may be better not to be thought
rich. I wish to see you always dressed with propriety, for you do
credit to your dress; but this handkerchief is out of place."

"Out of place! Now, hear me, Clara, though it is to be a great secret.
What do you think Pa is worth?"

"Bless me, these are things I never think of. I do not even know how
much my own father is worth. Mother tells me how much I may spend, and
I can want to learn no more."

"Well, Mr. Murray dined with Pa last week, and they sat over their wine
until near ten. I overheard them talking, and got into this room to
listen, for I thought I should get something new. At first they said
nothing but 'lots—lots—up town—down town—twenty-five feet
front—dollar, dollar, dollar.' La! child, you never heard such stuff
in your life!"

"One gets used to these things, notwithstanding," observed Clara, drily.

"Yes, one DOES hear a great deal of it. I shall be glad when the
gentlemen learn to talk of something else. But the best is to come. At
last, Pa asked Mr. Murray if he had inventoried lately."

"Did he?"

"Yes, he did. Of course you know what that means?"

"It meant to FILL, as they call it, does it not?"

"So I thought at first, but it means no such thing. It means to count
up, and set down how much one is worth. Mr. Murray said he did THAT
every month, and of course he knew very well what HE was worth. I
forget how much it was, for I didn't care, you know George Murray is
not as old as I am, and so I listened to what Pa had inventoried. Now,
how much do you guess?"

"A thousand dollars! What, for a gentleman who keeps his coach—lives
in Broadway—dresses his daughter as I dress, and gives her
hundred-dollar handkerchiefs. Two hundred million, my dear; two hundred
million!"

Eudosia had interpolated the word "hundred," quite innocently, for, as
usually happens with those to whom money is new, her imagination ran
ahead of her arithmetic. "Yes," she added, "two hundred millions;
besides sixty millions of odd money!"

"That sounds like a great deal," observed Clara quietly; for, besides
caring very little for these millions, she had not a profound respect
for her friend's accuracy on such subjects.

"It IS a great deal. Ma says there are not ten richer men than Pa in
the state. Now, does not this alter the matter about the
pocket-handkerchief? It would be mean in me not to have a
hundred-dollar handkerchief, when I could get one."

"It may alter the matter as to the extravagance; but it does not alter
it as to the fitness. Of what USE is a pocket-handkerchief like this? A
pocket-handkerchief is made for USE, my dear, not for show."

"You would not have a young lady use her pocket-handkerchief like a
snuffy old nurse, Clara?"

"I would have her use it like a young lady, and in no other way. But it
always strikes me as a proof of ignorance and a want of refinement when
the uses of things are confounded. A pocket-handkerchief, at the best,
is but a menial appliance, and it is bad taste to make it an object of
attraction. FINE, it may be, for that conveys an idea of delicacy in
its owner; but ornamented beyond reason, never. Look what a tawdry and
vulgar thing an embroidered slipper is on a woman's foot."

"Yes, I grant you that, but everybody cannot have hundred-dollar
handkerchiefs, though they may have embroidered slippers. I shall wear
my purchase at Miss Trotter's ball to-night."

To this Clara made no objection, though she still looked disapprobation
of her purchase. Now, the lovely Eudosia had not a bad heart; she had
only received a bad education. Her parents had given her a smattering
of the usual accomplishments, but here her superior instruction ended.
Unable to discriminate themselves, for the want of this very education,
they had been obliged to trust their daughter to the care of
mercenaries, who fancied their duties discharged when they had taught
their pupil to repeat like a parrot. All she acquired had been for
effect, and not for the purpose of every-day use; in which her
instruction and her pocket-handkerchief might be said to be of a piece.

CHAPTER XI.

And here I will digress a moment to make a single remark on a subject
of which popular feeling, in America, under the influence of popular
habits, is apt to take an exparte view. Accomplishments are derided as
useless, in comparison with what is considered household virtues. The
accomplishment of a cook is to make good dishes; of a seamstress to sew
well, and of a lady to possess refined tastes, a cultivated mind, and
agreeable and intellectual habits. The real VIRTUES of all are the
same, though subject to laws peculiar to their station; but it is a
very different thing when we come to the mere accomplishments. To
deride all the refined attainments of human skill denotes ignorance of
the means of human happiness, nor is it any evidence of acquaintance
with the intricate machinery of social greatness and a lofty
civilization. These gradations in attainments are inseparable from
civilized society, and if the skill of the ingenious and laborious is
indispensable to a solid foundation, without the tastes and habits of
the refined and cultivated, it never can be graceful or pleasing.

{exparte = should be "ex parte"—one-sided (Latin)}

Eudosia had some indistinct glimmerings of this fact, though it was not
often that she came to sound and discriminating decisions even in
matters less complicated. In the present instance she saw this truth
only by halves, and that, too, in its most commonplace aspect, as will
appear by the remark she made on the occasion.

"Then, Clara, as to the PRICE I have paid for this handkerchief," she
said, "you ought to remember what the laws of political economy lay
down on such subjects. I suppose your Pa makes you study political
economy, my dear?"

"Indeed he does not. I hardly know what it means."

"Well, that is singular; for Pa says, in this age of the world, it is
the only way to be rich. Now, it is by means of a trade in lots, and
political economy, generally, that he has succeeded so wonderfully;
for, to own the truth to you, Clara, Pa hasn't always been rich."

"Oh, no—far from it—but we don't speak of this publicly, it being a
sort of disgrace in New York, you know, not to be thought worth at
least half a million. I dare say your Pa is worth as much as that?"

"I have not the least idea he is worth a fourth of it, though I do not
pretend to know. To me half a million of dollars seems a great deal of
money, and I know my father considers himself poor—poor, at least, for
one of his station. But what were you about to say of political
economy? I am curious to hear how THAT can have any thing to do with
your handkerchief."

"Why, my dear, in this manner. You know a distribution of labor is the
source of all civilization—that trade is an exchange of
equivalents—that custom-houses fetter these equivalents—that nothing
which is fettered is free—"

"My dear Eudosia, what IS your tongue running on?"

"You will not deny, Clara, that any thing which is fettered is not
free? And that freedom is the greatest blessing of this happy country;
and that trade ought to be as free as any thing else?"

All this was gibberish to Clara Caverly, who understood the phrases,
notwithstanding, quite as well as the friend who was using them.
Political economy is especially a science of terms; and free trade, as
a branch of it is called, is just the portion of it which is indebted
to them the most. But Clara had not patience to hear any more of the
unintelligible jargon which has got possession of the world to-day,
much as Mr. Pitt's celebrated sinking-fund scheme for paying off the
national debt of Great Britain did, half a century since, and under
very much the same influences; and she desired her friend to come at
once to the point, as connected with the pocket-handkerchief.

{Mr. Pitt's celebrated sinking-fund = Sir William Pitt "the younger"
(1759-1806), when he became Prime Minister in 1784, sought to raise
taxes in order to pay off the British national debt}

"Well, then," resumed Eudosia, "it is connected in this way. The
luxuries of the rich give employment to the poor, and cause money to
circulate. Now this handkerchief of mine, no doubt, has given
employment to some poor French girl for four or five months, and, of
course, food and raiment. She has earned, no doubt, fifty of the
hundred dollars I have paid. Then the custom-house—ah, Clara, if it
were not for that vile custom-house, I might have had the handkerchief
for at least five-and-twenty dollars lower——!"

"In which case you would have prized it five-and-twenty times less,"
answered Clara, smiling archly.

"THAT is true; yes, free trade, after all, does NOT apply to
pocket-handkerchiefs."

"And yet," interrupted Clara, laughing, "if one can believe what one
reads, it applies to hackney-coaches, ferry-boats, doctors, lawyers,
and even the clergy. My father says it is——"

"What? I am curious to know, Clara, what as plain speaking a man as Mr.
Caverly calls it."

"He is plain speaking enough to call it a —— HUMBUG," said the
daughter, endeavoring to mouth the word in a theatrical manner. "But,
as Othello says, the handkerchief."

"Oh! Fifty dollars go to the poor girl who does the work, twenty-five
more to the odious custom-house, some fifteen to rent, fuel, lights,
and ten, perhaps, to Mr. Bobbinet, as profits. Now all this is very
good, and very useful to society, as you must own."

Alas, poor Adrienne! Thou didst not receive for me as many francs as
this fair calculation gave thee dollars; and richer wouldst thou have
been, and, oh, how much happier, hadst thou kept the money paid for me,
sold the lace even at a loss, and spared thyself so many, many hours of
painful and anxious toil! But it is thus with human calculations, The
propositions seem plausible, and the reasoning fair, while stern truth
lies behind all to level the pride of understanding, and prove the
fallacy of the wisdom of men. The reader may wish to see how closely
Eudosia's account of profit and loss came to the fact, and I shall,
consequently, make up the statement from the private books of the firm
that had the honor of once owning me, viz.:

As Clara Caverly had yet to see Mrs. Thoughtful, and pay Eudosia's
subscription, the former now took her leave. I was thus left alone with
my new employer, for the first time, and had an opportunity of learning
something of her true character, without the interposition of third
persons; for, let a friend have what hold he or she may on your heart,
it has a few secrets that are strictly its own. If admiration of myself
could win my favor, I had every reason to be satisfied with the hands
into which fortune had now thrown me. There were many things to admire
in Eudosia—a defective education being the great evil with which she
had to contend. Owing to this education, if it really deserved such a
name, she had superficial accomplishments, superficially
acquired—principles that scarce extended beyond the retenue and morals
of her sex—tastes that had been imbibed from questionable models—and
hopes that proceeded from a false estimate of the very false position
into which she had been accidentally and suddenly thrown. Still Eudosia
had a heart. She could scarcely be a woman, and escape the influence of
this portion of the female frame. By means of the mesmeritic power of a
pocket-handkerchief, I soon discovered that there was a certain Morgan
Morely in New York, to whom she longed to exhibit my perfection, as
second to the wish to exhibit her own.

{retenue = discretion}

I scarcely know whether to felicitate myself or not, on the
circumstance that I was brought out the very first evening I passed in
the possession of Eudosia Halfacre. The beautiful girl was dressed and
ready for Mrs. Trotter's ball by eight; and her admiring mother thought
it impossible for the heart of Morgan Morely, a reputed six figure
fortune, to hold out any longer. By some accident or other, Mr.
Halfacre did not appear—he had not dined at home; and the two females
had all the joys of anticipation to themselves.

"I wonder what has become of your father," said Mrs. Halfacre, after
inquiring for her husband for the tenth time. "It is SO like him to
forget an engagement to a ball. I believe he thinks of nothing but his
lots. It is really a great trial, Dosie, to be so rich. I sometimes
wish we weren't worth more than a million, for, after all, I suspect
true happiness is to be found in these little fortunes. Heigho! It's
ten o'clock, and we must go, if we mean to be there at all; for Mrs.
Caverly once said, in my presence, that she thought it as vulgar to be
too late, as too early."

The carriage was ordered, and we all three got in, leaving a message
for Mr. Halfacre to follow us. As the rumor that a "three-figure"
pocket-handkerchief was to be at the ball, had preceded my appearance,
a general buzz announced my arrival in the salle a manger-salons. I
have no intention of describing fashionable society in the GREAT
EMPORIUM of the WESTERN WORLD. Every body understands that it is on the
best possible footing—grace, ease, high breeding and common sense
being so blended together, that it is exceedingly difficult to analyze
them, or, indeed, to tell which is which. It is this moral fusion that
renders the whole perfect, as the harmony of fine coloring throws a
glow of glory on the pictures of Claude, or, for that matter, on those
of Cole, too. Still, as envious and evil disposed persons have dared to
call in question the elegance, and more especially the retenue of a
Manhattanese rout, I feel myself impelled, if not by that high
sentiment, patriotism, at least by a feeling of gratitude for the great
consideration that is attached to pocket-handkerchiefs, just to declare
that it is all scandal. If I have any fault to find with New York
society, it is on account of its formal and almost priggish quiet—the
female voice being usually quite lost in it—thus leaving a void in the
ear, not to say the heart, that is painful to endure. Could a few young
ladies, too, be persuaded to become a little more prominent, and quit
their mother's apron-strings, it would add vastly to the grouping, and
relieve the stiffness of the "shin-pieces" of formal rows of
dark-looking men, and of the flounces of pretty women. These two slight
faults repaired, New York society might rival that of Paris; especially
in the Chausse d'Autin. More than this I do not wish to say, and less
than this I cannot in honor write, for I have made some of the warmest
and truest-hearted friends in New York that it ever fell to the lot of
a pocket-handkerchief to enjoy.

It has been said that my arrival produced a general buzz. In less than
a minute Eudosia had made her curtsy, and was surrounded, in a corner,
by a bevy of young friends, all silent together, and all dying to see
me. To deny the deep gratification I felt at the encomiums I received,
would be hypocrisy. They went from my borders to my centre—from the
lace to the hem—and from the hem to the minutest fibre of my exquisite
texture. In a word, I was the first hundred-dollar pocket-handkerchief
that had then appeared in their circles; and had I been a Polish count,
with two sets of moustaches, I could not have been more flattered and
"entertained." My fame soon spread through the rooms, as two little
apartments, with a door between them that made each an alcove of the
other, were called; and even the men, the young ones in particular,
began to take an interest in me. This latter interest, it is true, did
not descend to the minutiae of trimmings and work, or even of fineness,
but the "three figure" had a surprising effect. An elderly lady sent to
borrow me for a moment. It was a queer thing to borrow a
pocket-handkerchief, some will think; but I was lent to twenty people
that night; and while in her hands, I overheard the following little
aside, between two young fashionables, who were quite unconscious of
the acuteness of the senses of our family.

"This must be a rich old chap, this Halfacre, to be able to give his
daughter a hundred-dollar pocket-handkerchief, Tom; one might do well
to get introduced."

"If you'll take my advice, Ned, you'll keep where you are," was the
answer. "You've been to the surrogate's office, and have seen the will
of old Simonds, and KNOW that he has left his daughter seventy-eight
thousand dollars; and, after all, this pocket-handkerchief may be only
a sign. I always distrust people who throw out such lures."

"Oh, rely on it, there is no sham here; Charley Pray told me of this
girl last week, when no one had ever heard of her pocket-handkerchief."

"Why don't Charley, then, take her himself? I'm sure, if I had HIS
imperial, I could pick and choose among all the second-class heiresses
in town."

{imperial = wealth (from a Russian gold coin)}

"Ay, there's the rub, Tom; one is obliged in our business to put up
with the SECOND class. Why can't we aim higher at once, and get such
girls as the Burtons, for instance?"

"The Burtons have, or have had, a mother."

"And haven't all girls mothers? Who ever heard of a man or a woman
without a mother!"

"True, physically; but I mean morally. Now this very Eudosia Halfacre
has no more mother, in the last sense, than you have a wet-nurse. She
has an old woman to help her make a fool of herself; but, in the way of
a mother, she would be better off with a pair of good gum-shoes. A
creature that is just to tell a girl not to wet her feet, and when to
cloak and uncloak, and to help tear the check-book out of money, is no
more of a mother than old Simonds was of a Solomon, when he made that
will which every one of us knows by heart quite as well as he knows the
constitution."

Here a buzz in the room drew the two young men a little aside, and for
a minute I heard nothing but indistinct phrases, in which "removal of
deposites," "panic," "General Jackson," and "revolution," were the only
words I could fairly understand. Presently, however, the young men
dropped back into their former position, and the dialogue proceeded.

{General Jackson... = President Andrew Jackson in 1833 withdrew the
federal government deposits from the Bank of the United States, leading
to a major financial panic}

"There!" exclaimed Ned, in a voice louder than was prudent, "THAT is
what I call an escape! That cursed handkerchief was very near taking me
in. I call it swindling to make such false pretensions."

"It might be very awkward with one who was not properly on his guard;
but with the right sort there is very little danger."

Here the two elegants led out a couple of heiresses to dance; and I
heard no more of them or of their escapes. Lest the reader, however,
should be misled, I wish to add, that these two worthies are not to be
taken as specimens of New York morality at all—no place on earth being
more free from fortune-hunters, or of a higher tone of social morals in
this delicate particular. As I am writing for American readers, I wish
to say, that all they are told of the vices of OLD countries, on the
other side of the Atlantic, is strictly true; while all that is said,
directly, or by implication, of the vices and faults of this happy
young country, is just so much calumny. The many excellent friends I
have made, since my arrival in this hemisphere, has bound my heart to
them to all eternity; and I will now proceed with my philosophical and
profound disquisitions on what I have seen, with a perfect confidence
that I shall receive credit, and an independence of opinion that is
much too dear to me to consent to place it in question. But to return
to facts.

{elegants = dandies}

I was restored to Eudosia, with a cold, reserved look, by a lady into
whose hands I had passed, that struck me as singular, as shown to the
owner of such an article. It was not long, however, before I
discovered, to use a homely phrase, that something had happened; and I
was not altogether without curiosity to know what that something was.
It was apparent enough, that Eudosia was the subject of general
observation, and of general conversation, though, so long as she held
me in her hand, it exceeded all my acuteness of hearing to learn what
was said. The poor girl fancied her pocket-handkerchief was the common
theme; and in this she was not far from right, though it was in a way
she little suspected. At length Clara Caverly drew near, and borrowed
me of her friend, under a pretext of showing me to her mother, who was
in the room, though, in fact, it was merely to get me out of sight; for
Clara was much too well-bred to render any part of another's dress the
subject of her discussions in general society. As if impatient to get
me out of sight, I was thrown on a sofa, among a little pile of
consoeurs, (if there is such a word,) for a gathering had been made,
while our pretty hostesses were dancing, in order to compare our
beauty. There we lay quite an hour, a congress of pocket-handkerchiefs,
making our comments on the company, and gossiping in our own fashion.
It was only the next day that I discovered the reason we were thus
neglected; for, to own the truth, something had occurred which suddenly
brought "three-figure," and even "two-figure" people of our class into
temporary disrepute. I shall explain that reason at the proper moment.

{consoeurs = fellow sisters}

The conversation among the handkerchiefs on the sofa, ran principally
on the subject of our comparative market value. I soon discovered that
there was a good deal of envy against me, on account of my "three
figures," although, I confess, I thought I cut a "poor figure," lying
as I did, neglected in a corner, on the very first evening of my
appearance in the fashionable world. But some of the opinions uttered
on this occasion—always in the mesmeritic manner, be it
remembered—will be seen in the following dialogue.

"Well!" exclaimed $25, "this is the first ball I have been at that I
was not thought good enough to have a place in the quadrille. You see
all the canaille are in the hands of their owners, while we, the elite
of pocket-handkerchiefs, are left here in a corner, like so many
cloaks."

{canaille = riff-raff}

"There must be a reason for this, certainly," answered $45, "though YOU
have been flourished about these two winters, in a way that ought to
satisfy one of YOUR pretensions."

An animated reply was about to set us all in commotion, when $80, who,
next to myself, had the highest claims of any in the party, changed the
current of feeling, by remarking—

"It is no secret that we are out of favor for a night or two, in
consequence of three figures having been paid for one of us, this very
day, by a bossess, whose father stopped payment within three hours
after he signed the cheque that was to pay the importer. I overheard
the whole story, half an hour since, and thus, you see, every one is
afraid to be seen with an aristocratic handkerchief, just at this
moment. But—bless you! in a day or two all will be forgotten, and we
shall come more into favor than ever. All is always forgotten in New
York in a week."

Such was, indeed, the truth. One General Jackson had "removed the
deposits," as I afterwards learned, though I never could understand
exactly what that meant; but, it suddenly made money scarce, more
especially with those who had none; and every body that was "extended"
began to quake in their shoes. Mr. Halfacre happened to be in this
awkward predicament, and he broke down in the effort to sustain
himself. His energy had over-reached itself, like the tumbler who
breaks his neck in throwing seventeen hundred somersets backwards.

CHAPTER XII.

Every one is more apt to hear an unpleasant rumor than those whom it
immediately affects. Thus Eudosia and her mother were the only persons
at Mrs. Trotter's ball who were ignorant of what had happened; one
whispering the news to another, though no one could presume to
communicate the fact to the parties most interested. In a commercial
town, like New York, the failure of a reputed millionaire, could not
long remain a secret, and every body stared at the wife and daughter,
and me; first, as if they had never seen the wives and daughters of
bankrupts before; and second, as if they had never seen them surrounded
by the evidences of their extravagance.

But the crisis was at hand, and the truth could not long be concealed.
Eudosia was permitted to cloak and get into the carriage unaided by any
beau, a thing that had not happened to her since speculation had
brought her father into notice. The circumstance, more than any other,
attracted her attention; and the carriage no sooner started than the
poor girl gave vent to her feelings.

"What CAN be the matter, Ma?" Eudosia said, "that every person in Mrs.
Trotter's rooms should stare so at me, this evening? I am sure my dress
is as well made and proper as that of any other young lady in the
rooms, and as for the handkerchiefS, I could see envy in fifty eyes,
when their owners heard the price."

"That is all, dear—they DID envy you, and no wonder they
stared—nothing makes people stare like envy. I thought this
handkerchief would make a commotion. Oh! I used to stare myself when
envious."

"Still it was odd that Morgan Morely did not ask me to dance—he knows
how fond I am of dancing, and for the credit of so beautiful a
handkerchief, he ought to have been more than usually attentive
to-night."

Mrs. Halfacre gaped, and declared that she was both tired and sleepy,
which put an end to conversation until the carriage reached her own
door.

Both Mrs. Halfacre and Eudosia were surprised to find the husband and
father still up. He was pacing the drawing-room, by the light of a
single tallow candle, obviously in great mental distress.

"Bless me!" exclaimed the wife—"YOU up at this hour?—what CAN have
happened? what HAS come to our door?"

"Nothing but beggary," answered the man, smiling with a bitterness
which showed he felt an inhuman joy, at that fierce moment, in making
others as miserable as himself. "Yes, Mrs. Henry Halfacre—yes, Miss
Eudosia Halfacre, you are both beggars—I hope that, at least, will
satisfy you."

"You mean, Henry, that you have failed?" For that was a word too
familiar in New York not to be understood even by the ladies. "Tell me
the worst at once—is it true, HAVE you failed?"

"It IS true—I HAVE failed. My notes have been this day protested for
ninety-five thousand dollars, and I have not ninety-five dollars in
bank. To-morrow, twenty-three thousand more will fall due, and this
month will bring round quite a hundred and thirty thousand more. That
accursed removal of the deposits, and that tiger, Jackson, have done it
all."

To own the truth, both the ladies were a little confounded. They wept,
and for some few minutes there was a dead silence, but curiosity soon
caused them both to ask questions.

"This is very dreadful, and with our large family!" commenced the
mother—"and so the general has it all to answer for—why did you let
him give so many notes for you?"

"No—no—it is not that—I gave the notes myself; but he removed the
deposits, I tell you."

"It's just like him, the old wretch! To think of his removing your
deposits, just as you wanted them so much yourself! But why did the
clerks at the bank let him have them—they ought to have known that you
had all this money to pay, and people cannot well pay debts without
money."

"You are telling that, my dear, to one who knows it by experience. That
is the very reason why I have failed. I have a great many debts, and I
have no money."

"But you have hundreds of lots—give them lots, Henry, and that will
settle all your difficulties. You must remember how all our friends
have envied us our lots."

"Ay, no fear, but they'll get the lots, my dear—unless, indeed," added
the speculator, "I take good care to prevent it. Thank God! I'm not a
DECLARED bankrupt. I can yet make my own assignee."

"Well, then, I wouldn't say a word about it—declare nothing, and let
'em find out that you have failed, in the best manner they can. Why
tell people your distresses, so that they may pity you. I hate pity,
above all things—and especially the pity of my own friends."

"Very little fear of that, I fancy," muttered the father; "people who
shoot up like rockets, in two or three years, seldom lay the
foundations of much pity in readiness for their fall."

"Well, I declare, Dosie, this is TOO bad in the old general, after all.
I'm sure it MUST be unconstitutional for a president to remove your
father's deposits. If I were in your place, Mr. Halfacre, I wouldn't
fail just to spite them. You know you always said that a man of energy
can do any thing in this country; and I have heard Mr. Munny say that
he didn't know a man of greater energy than yourself."

The grin with which the ruined speculator turned on his wife was nearly
sardonic.

"Your men of energy are the very fellows TO fail," he said; "however,
they shall find if I have had extraordinary energy in running into
debt, that I have extraordinary energy, too, in getting out of it. Mrs.
Halfacre, we must quit this house this very week, and all this fine
furniture must be brought to the hammer. I mean to preserve my
character, at least."

This was said loftily, and with the most approved accents.

"Surely it isn't necessary to move to do that, my dear! Other people
fail, and keep their houses, and furniture, and carriages, and such
other things. Let us not make ourselves the subjects of unpleasant
remarks."

"I intend that as little as you do yourself. We must quit this house
and bring the furniture under the hammer, or part with all those lots
you so much esteem and prize."

"Oh! If the house and furniture will pay the notes I'm content,
especially if you can contrive to keep the lots. Dosie will part with
her handkerchief, too, I dare say, if that will do any good."

"By George! that will be a capital idea—yes, the handkerchief must be
sent back to-morrow morning; THAT will make a famous talk. I only
bought it because Munny was present, and I wanted to get fifty thousand
dollars out of him, to meet this crisis. The thing didn't succeed; but,
no matter, the handkerchief will tell in settling up. That
handkerchief, Dosie, may be made to cover a hundred lots."

In what manner I was to open so much, like the tent of the Arabian
Nights, was a profound mystery to me then, as well as it was to the
ladies; but the handsome Eudosia placed me in her father's hand with a
frank liberality that proved she was not altogether without good
qualities. As I afterwards discovered, indeed, these two females had
most of the excellences of a devoted wife and daughter, their
frivolities being the result of vicious educations or of no educations
at all, rather than of depraved hearts. When Mr. Halfacre went into
liquidation, as it is called, and compromised with his creditors,
reserving to himself a pretty little capital of some eighty or a
hundred thousand dollars, by means of judicious payments to
confidential creditors, his wife and daughter saw all THEY most prized
taken away, and the town was filled with the magnitude of their
sacrifices, and with the handsome manner in which both submitted to
make them. By this ingenious device, the insolvent not only preserved
his character, by no means an unusual circumstance in New York,
however, but he preserved about half of his bona fide estate also; his
creditors, as was customary, doing the PAYING.

It is unnecessary to dwell on the remainder of this dialogue, my own
adventures so soon carrying me into an entirely different sphere. The
following morning, however, as soon as he had breakfasted, Mr. Halfacre
put me in his pocket, and walked down street, with the port of an
afflicted and stricken, but thoroughly honest man. When he reached the
shop-door of Bobbinet & Co., he walked boldly in, and laid me on the
counter with a flourish so meek, that even the clerks, a very
matter-of-fact caste in general, afterwards commented on it.

"Circumstances of an unpleasant nature, on which I presume it is
unnecessary to dwell, compel me to offer you this handkerchief, back
again, gentlemen," he said, raising his hand to his eyes in a very
affecting manner. "As a bargain is a bargain, I feel great reluctance
to disturb its sacred obligations, but I CANNOT suffer a child of mine
to retain such a luxury, while a single individual can justly say that
I owe him a dollar."

"What fine sentiments!" said Silky, who was lounging in a corner of the
shop—"wonderful sentiments, and such as becomes a man of honesty."

Those around the colonel approved of his opinion, and Mr. Halfacre
raised his head like one who was not afraid to look his creditors in
the face.

"I approve of your motives, Mr. Halfacre," returned Bobbinet, "but you
know the character of the times, and the dearness of rents. That
article has been seen in private hands, doubtless, and can no longer be
considered fresh—we shall be forced to make a considerable abatement,
if we consent to comply."

"Name your own terms, sir; so they leave me a single dollar for my
creditors, I shall be happy."

"Wonderful sentiments!" repeated the colonel—"we must send that man to
the national councils!"

After a short negotiation, it was settled that Mr. Halfacre was to
receive $50, and Bobbinet & Co. were to replace me in their drawer. The
next morning an article appeared in a daily paper of pre-eminent
honesty and truth, and talents, in the following words:—

"WORTHY OF IMITATION.—A distinguished gentleman of this city, H——
H——, Esquire, having been compelled to SUSPEND, in consequence of the
late robbery of the Bank of the United States by the cold-blooded
miscreant whose hoary head disgraces the White House, felt himself
bound to return an article of dress, purchased as recently as yesterday
by his lovely daughter, and who, in every respect, was entitled to wear
it, as she would have adorned it, receiving back the price, with a view
to put it in the fund he is already collecting to meet the demands of
his creditors. It is due to the very respectable firm of Bobbinet & Co.
to add, that it refunded the money with the greatest liberality, at the
first demand. We can recommend this house to our readers as one of the
most liberal in OUR city, (by the way the editor who wrote this article
didn't own a foot of the town, or of any thing else,) and as possessing
a very large and well selected assortment of the choicest goods."

The following words—"we take this occasion to thank Messrs. Bobbinet &
Co. for a specimen of most beautiful gloves sent us," had a line run
through in the manuscript; a little reflection, telling the learned
editor that it might be indiscreet to publish the fact at that precise
moment. The American will know how to appreciate the importance of this
opinion, in relation to the house in question, when he is told that it
was written by one of those inspired moralists, and profound
constitutional lawyers, and ingenious political economists, who daily
teach their fellow creatures how to give practical illustrations of the
mandates of the Bible, how to discriminate in vexed questions arising
from the national compact, and how to manage their private affairs in
such a way as to escape the quicksands that have wrecked their own.

As some of my readers may feel an interest in the fate of poor Eudosia,
I will take occasion to say, before I proceed with the account of my
own fortunes, that it was not half as bad as might have been supposed.
Mr. Halfacre commenced his compromises under favorable auspices. The
reputation of the affair of the pocket-handkerchief was of great
service, and creditors relented as they thought of the hardship of
depriving a pretty girl of so valuable an appliance. Long before the
public had ceased to talk about the removal of the deposits, Mr.
Halfacre had arranged every thing to his own satisfaction. The lots
were particularly useful, one of them paying off a debt that had been
contracted for half a dozen. Now and then he met an obstinate fellow
who insisted on his money, and who talked of suits in chancery. Such
men were paid off in full, litigation being the speculator's aversion.
As for the fifty dollars received for me, it answered to go to market
with until other funds were found. This diversion of the sum from its
destined object, however, was apparent rather than real, since food was
indispensable to enable the excellent but unfortunate man to work for
the benefit of his creditors. In short, every thing was settled in the
most satisfactory manner, Mr. Halfacre paying a hundred cents in the
dollar, in lots, however, but in such a manner as balanced his books
beautifully.

"Now, thank God! I owe no man a sixpence," said Mr. to Mrs. Halfacre,
the day all was concluded, "and only one small mistake has been made by
me, in going through so many complicated accounts, and for such large
sums."

"I had hoped ALL was settled," answered the good woman in alarm. "It is
that unreasonable man, John Downright, who gives you the trouble, I
dare say."

"He—oh! he is paid in full. I offered him, at first, twenty-five cents
in the dollar, but THAT he wouldn't hear to. Then I found a small
error, and offered forty. It wouldn't do, and I had to pay the scamp a
hundred. I can look that fellow in the face with a perfectly clear
conscience."

"Who else can it be, then?"

"Only your brother, Myers, my dear; somehow or other, we made a mistake
in our figures, which made out a demand in his favor of $100,000. I
paid it in property, but when we came to look over the figures it was
discovered that a cypher too much had been thrown in, and Myers paid
back the difference like a man, as he is."

"And to whom will that difference belong?"

"To whom—oh!—why, of course, to the right owner."

CHAPTER XIII.

When I found myself once more in the possession of Bobbinet & Co., I
fancied that I might anticipate a long residence in their drawers, my
freshness, as an article, having been somewhat tarnished by the
appearance at Mrs. Trotter's ball. In this I was mistaken, the next day
bringing about a release, and a restoration to my proper place in
society.

The very morning after I was again in the drawer, a female voice was
heard asking for "worked French pocket-handkerchiefs." As I clearly
came within this category—alas, poor Adrienne!—in half a minute I
found myself, along with fifty fellows or fellowesses, lying on the
counter. The instant I heard the voice, I knew that the speaker was not
"mamma," but "my child," and I now saw that she was fair. Julia Monson
was not as brilliantly handsome as my late owner, but she had more
feeling and refinement in the expression of her countenance. Still
there was an uneasy worldly glancing of the eye, that denoted how much
she lived out of herself, in the less favorable understanding of the
term; an expression of countenance that I have had occasion to remark
in most of those who think a very expensive handkerchief necessary to
their happiness. It is, in fact, the natural indication that the mind
dwells more on show than on substantial things, and a proof that the
possessor of this quality is not content to rely altogether on the
higher moral feelings and attainments for her claims to deference. In a
word, it is some such trait as that which distinguishes the beautiful
plumage of the peacock, from the motive that incites the bird to
display his feathers.

In company with Miss Monson was another young lady of about her own
age, and of a very similar appearance as to dress and station. Still, a
first glance discovered an essential difference in character. This
companion, who was addressed as Mary, and whose family name was Warren,
had none of the uneasiness of demeanor that belonged to her friend, and
obviously cared less what others thought of every thing she said or
did. When the handkerchiefs were laid on the counter, Julia Monson
seized on one with avidity, while Mary Warren regarded us all with a
look of cold indifference, if not one of downright displeasure.

"What beauties!" exclaimed the first, the clerk at that moment quitting
them to hand some gloves to another customer—"What delightful
needle-work! Mary, do YOU purchase one to keep me in countenance, and I
will purchase another. I know your mother gave you the money this very
morning."

"Not for that object, Julia. My dear mother little thinks I shall do
any such thing."

"And why not? A rich pocket-handkerchief is a stylish thing!"

"I question if style, as you call it, is just the thing for a young
woman, under any circumstances; but, to confess the truth, I think a
pocket-handkerchief that is to be LOOKED at and which is not to be
USED, vulgar."

"Not in Sir Walter Scott's signification, my dear," answered Julia
laughing, "for it is not so very COMMON. Every body cannot have a
worked French pocket-handkerchief."

{Sir Walter Scott = British novelist and poet (1771-1832), often
compared with Cooper—I have not located his definition of "vulgar"}

"Sir Walter Scott's definition of what is vulgar is open to criticism,
I fancy. The word comes from the common mind, or common practices,
beyond a question, but it now means what is common as opposed to what
is cultivated and refined. It is an absurdity, too, to make a thing
respectable because it is common. A fib is one of the commonest things
in the world, and yet it is scarcely respectable."

"Oh! Every one says you are a philosopherESS, Mary, and I ought to have
expected some such answer. But a handkerchief I am determined to have,
and it shall be the very handsomest I can find."

"And the DEAREST? Well, you will have a very lady-like wardrobe with
one pocket-handkerchief in it! I wonder you do not purchase a single
shoe."

"Because I have TWO feet," replied Julia with spirit, though she
laughed good-naturedly—"but here is the clerk, and he must not hear
our quarrels. Have the goodness, sir, to show me the handsomest
pocket-handkerchief in your shop."

I was drawn from beneath the pile and laid before the bright black eyes
of Julia, with an air of solemn dignity, by the young dealer in finery.

"That, ma'am," he said, "is the very finest and most elegant article
not only that WE have, but which is to be found in America. It was
brought out by 'our Mr. Silky,' the last voyage; HE said PARIS cannot
produce its equal."

"This IS beautiful, sir, one must admit! What is the price?"

"Why, ma'am, we OUGHT in justice to ourselves to have $120 for that
article; but, to our regular customers I believe Mr. Bobbinet has
determined to ask ONLY $100."

This sounded exceedingly liberal—to ask ONLY $100 for that for which
there was a sort of moral obligation to ask $120!—and Julia having
come out with the intent to throw away a hundred-dollar note that her
mother had given her that morning, the bargain was concluded. I was
wrapped up carefully in paper, put into Miss Monson's muff, and once
more took my departure from the empire of Col. Silky. I no longer
occupied a false position.

"Now, I hope you are happy, Julia," quietly observed Mary Warren, as
the two girls took their seats side by side in Mrs. Monson's chariot.
"The surprise to me is, that you forgot to purchase this ne plus ultra
of elegance while in Paris last summer."

"My father said he could not afford it; we spent a great deal of money,
as you may suppose, in running about, seeing sights, and laying in
curiosities, and when I hinted the matter to my mother, she said we
must wait until another half year's rents had come round. After all,
Mary, there is ONE person at home to whom I shall be ashamed to show
this purchase."

"At home!—is there, indeed? Had you merely said 'in town' I could have
understood you. Your father and mother approving of what you have done,
I do not see who there is AT HOME to alarm you."

Julia blushed when her friend said "in town," and her conscious
feelings immediately conjured up the image of a certain Betts Shoreham,
as the person in her companion's mind's eye. I detected it all easily
enough, being actually within six inches of her throbbing heart at that
very moment, though concealed in the muff.

"It is not what you suppose, Mary, nor WHOM you suppose," answered my
mistress; "I mean Mademoiselle Hennequin—I confess I DO dread the
glance of her reproving eye."

"It is odd enough that you should dread reproval from the governess of
your sisters when you do not dread it from your own mother! But
Mademoiselle Hennequin has nothing to do with you. You were educated
and out before she entered your family, and it is singular that a
person not older than yourself, who was engaged in Paris so recently,
should have obtained so much influence over the mind of one who never
was her pupil."

"I am not afraid of her in most things," rejoined Julia, "but I confess
I am in all that relates to taste; particularly in what relates to
extravagance."

"I have greatly misunderstood the character of Mademoiselle Hennequin
if she ventured to interfere with you in either! A governess ought not
to push her control beyond her proper duties."

"Nor has Mademoiselle Hennequin," answered Julia honestly. "Still I
cannot but hear the lessons she gives my sisters, and—yes—to own the
truth, I dread the glance she cannot avoid throwing on my purchase. It
will say, 'of what use are all my excellent lessons in taste and
prudence, if an elder sister's example is to counteract them?' It is
THAT I dread."

Mary was silent for fully a minute; then she smiled archly, as girls
will smile when certain thoughts cross their playful imaginations, and
continued the discourse.

"And Betts Shoreham has nothing to do with all this dread?"

"What is Betts Shoreham to me, or what am I to Betts Shoreham? I am
sure the circumstances that we happened to come from Europe in the same
packet, and that he continues to visit us now we are at home, do not
entitle him to have a veto, as they call it, on my wardrobe."

"Not YET, certainly, my dear. Still they may entitle him to have this
VETO, in petto."

{in petto = in private (Italian)}

I thought a shade passed over the features of the pretty Julia Monson
as she answered her friend, with a seriousness to show that she was now
in earnest, and with a propriety that proved she had great good sense
at bottom, as well as strong womanly feeling.

"If I have learned nothing else by visiting Europe," she said, "I have
learned to see how inconsiderate we girls are in America, in talking so
much, openly, of this sort of thing. A woman's delicacy is like that of
a tender flower, and it must suffer by having her name coupled with
that of any man, except him that she is to marry."

"Julia, dear, I will never speak of Mr. Shoreham again. I should not
have done it now had I not thought his attentions were acceptable to
you, as I am sure they are to your parents. Certainly, they are VERY
marked—at least, so others think as well as myself."

"I know it SEEMS so to the WORLD," answered Julia in a subdued,
thoughtful tone, "but it scarcely seems so to ME. Betts Shoreham is
very agreeable, every way a suitable connection for any of us, and that
is the reason people are so ready to fancy him in earnest."

"In earnest! If Mr. Shoreham pays attentions that are pointed, and is
not in earnest, he is a very different person from what I took him to
be."

Julia's voice grew still more gentle, and it was easy enough to see
that her feelings were enlisted in the subject.

"It is no more than justice to Betts Shoreham," she continued, "to say
that he has NOT been pointed in his attentions to ME. We females are
said to be quick in discovering such matters, and I am not more blind
than the rest of our sex. He is a young man of good family, and has
some fortune, and that makes him welcome in most houses in town, while
he is agreeable, well-looking, and thoroughly amiable. He met us
abroad, and it is natural for him to keep up an intimacy that recalls
pleasant recollections. You will remember, Mary, that before he can be
accused of trifling, he must trifle. I think him far more attentive to
my mother, my father—nay, to my two little sisters—than he is to ME.
Even Mademoiselle Hennequin is quite as much if not more of a favorite
than I am!"

As Mary Warren saw that her friend was serious she changed the subject;
soon after, we were set down at Mr. Monson's door. Here the friends
parted, Mary Warren preferring to walk home, while Julia and I entered
the house together.

"Well, mother," cried Julia, as she entered Mrs. Monson's room, "I have
found the most beautiful thing you ever beheld, and have bought it.
Here it is; what do you think of my choice?"

Mrs. Monson was a kind-hearted, easy, indulgent parent, who had brought
her husband a good fortune, and who had married rich in the bargain.
Accustomed all her life to a free use of money, and of her own money,
too, (for this is a country in which very many persons cast the
substance of OTHERS right and left,) and when her eldest daughter
expressed a wish to possess an elaborate specimen of our race, she had
consented from a pure disinclination to deny her child any
gratification that might be deemed innocent. Still, she knew that
prudence was a virtue, and that Julia had thrown away money that might
have been much better employed.

"This is certainly a very beautiful handkerchief," observed the mother,
after examining me carefully, and with somewhat of the manner of a
connoisseur, "surprisingly beautiful; and yet I almost wish, my child,
you had not purchased it. A hundred dollars sounds frightfully en
prince for us poor simple people, who live in nutshells of houses, five
and twenty feet front, and fifty-six deep, to pay for a
pocket-handkerchief. The jewel-box of a young lady who has such
handkerchiefs ought to cost thousands, to be in keeping."

"But, mother, I have only ONE, you will remember, and so my jewels may
be limited to hundreds."

"ONE pocket-handkerchief has a mean, sound, too. Even one hat is not
very superfluous."

"That is SO like Mary Warren, mother. If you did not wish me to make
the purchase, you had only to say it; I am sure your wish would have
been my law."

"I know it, love; and I am afraid it is your dutiful behavior that has
made me careless, in this instance. Your happiness and interests are
ever uppermost in my mind, and sometimes they seem to conflict. What
young man will dare to choose a wife from among young ladies who expend
so much money on their pocket-handkerchiefs?"

This was said smilingly, but there was a touch of tenderness and
natural concern in the voice and manner of the speaker that made an
impression on the daughter.

"I am afraid now, mother, you are thinking of Betts Shoreham," said
Julia, blushing, though she struggled powerfully to appear unconcerned.
"I do not know WHY it is, but both you and Mary Warren appear to be
always thinking of Mr. Shoreham."

The mother smiled; and she was not quite ingenuous when she said in
answer to the remark,

"Shoreham was not in my mouth; and you ought not to suppose he was in
my mind. Nevertheless, I do not believe he would admire you, or any one
else, the more for being the owner of so expensive an article of dress.
He is wealthy, but very prudent in his opinions and habits."

"Betts Shoreham was born to an estate, and his father before him," said
Julia firmly; "and such men know how to distinguish between the cant of
economy, and those elegancies of life that become people of refinement."

"No one can better understand the difference between cant in economy as
well as cant in some other things, and true taste as well as true
morals, than young Shoreham; but there are indulgences that become
persons in no class."

"After all, mother, we are making a trifle a very serious matter. It is
but a pocket-handkerchief."

"Very true, my love; and it cost ONLY one hundred dollars, and so we'll
say no more about it; bien entendu, that you are not to purchase six
dozen at the same price."

{bien entendu = it being understood}

This terminated the dialogue, Julia retiring to her own room, carrying
me with her. I was thrown upon the bed, and soon after my mistress
opened a door, and summoned her two younger sisters, who were studying
on the same floor, to join her. I shall not repeat all the delightful
exclamations, and other signs of approbation, that so naturally escaped
the two pretty little creatures, to whom I may be said to have now been
introduced, when my beauty came under examination. I do not thus speak
of myself out of any weakness, for pocket-handkerchiefs are wholly
without vanity, but simply because I am impelled to utter nothing but
truth. Julia had too much consideration to let her young sisters into
the secret of my price—for this would have been teaching a premature
lesson in extravagance; but, having permitted them to gratify their
curiosity, she exacted of them both promises not to speak of me to
their governess.

"But why not, Julia?" asked the inquisitive little Jane, "Mademoiselle
Hennequin is SO good and SO kind, that she would be glad to hear of
your good fortune."

Julia had an indistinct view of her own motive, but she could not avow
it to any one, not even to herself. Jealousy would be too strong,
perhaps too indelicate a word, but she alone had detected Betts
Shoreham's admiration of the governess; and it was painful to her to
permit one who stood in this relation to her own weakness in favor of
the young man, to be a witness of an act of extravagance to which she
had only half consented in committing it, and of which she already more
than half repented. From the first, therefore, she determined that
Mademoiselle Hennequin should never see me.

CHAPTER XIV.

And now comes an exhibition of my mesmeritic powers, always
"handkerchiefly speaking," that may surprise those who have not
attended to the modern science of invisible fluids. It is by this
means, however, that I am enabled to perceive a great deal of that
which passes under the roof where I may happen to be, without
absolutely seeing it. Much escapes me, of course—for even a
pocket-handkerchief cannot hear or see every thing; but enough is
learned to enable me to furnish a very clear outline of that which
occurs near me; more especially if it happen to be within walls of
brick. In wooden edifices I find my powers much diminished—the fluids,
doubtless, escaping through the pores of the material.

That evening, then, at the usual hour, and while I lay snugly ensconced
in a most fragrant and convenient drawer, among various other beings of
my species, though not of my family, alas! the inmates of the house
assembled in the front drawing-room to take a few cups of tea. Mr. and
Mrs. Monson, with their only son, John Monson, their three daughters,
the governess, and Betts Shoreham, were all present; the latter having
dropped in with a new novel for the ladies.

"I do really wish one could see a little advance in the way of real
refinement and true elegance among all the vast improvements we are
making in frippery and follies," cried Mr. Monson, throwing down an
evening paper in a pettish manner, that sufficiently denoted
discontent. "We are always puffing our own progress in America, without
exactly knowing whether a good deal of the road is not to be traveled
over again, by way of undoing much that we have done. Here, now, is a
specimen of our march in folly, in an advertisement of Bobbinett's, who
has pocket-handkerchiefs at $75."

"By the dozen, or by the gross, sir?" demanded Betts Shoreham, quickly.

"Oh, singly—seventy-five dollars each."

"Nay, that MUST be a mistake, sir! who, even in this extravagant and
reckless country, could be found to pay such a price? One can fancy
such a thing in a princess, with hundreds of thousands of income, but
scarcely of any one else. How could such a thing be USED, for instance?"

"Oh," cried John Monson, "to hide the blushes of the simpleton who had
thrown away her money on it. I heard a story this very afternoon, of
some person of the name of Halfacre's having failed yesterday, and
whose daughter purchased even a higher priced handkerchief than that
the very same day."

"His failure is not surprising, then," put in Betts Shoreham. "For
myself, I do not think that I——"

"Well, WHAT do you think, Mr. Shoreham?" asked Mrs. Monson, smiling,
for she saw that Julia was too much mortified to speak, and who assumed
more than half the blame of her own daughter's extravagance. "You were
about to favor us with some magnificent resolution."

"I was about to utter an impertinence, I confess, ma'am, but
recollected in time, that young men's protestations of what THEY would
do by way of reforming the world, is not of half the importance to
others that they so often fancy; so I shall spare you the infliction.
Seventy-five dollars, Mademoiselle Hennequin, would be a high price for
such a thing, even in Paris, I fancy."

The answer was given in imperfect English, a circumstance that rendered
the sweet round tones of the speaker very agreeable to the ear, and
lent the charm of piquancy to what she said. I could not distinguish
countenances from the drawer, but I fancied young Shoreham to be a
handsome youth, the governess to be pale and slightly ugly, though very
agreeable in manner, and Julia excessively embarrassed, but determined
to defend her purchase, should it become necessary.

"Seventy-five dollars sound like a high price, monsieur," answered
Mademoiselle Hennequin; "but the ladies of Paris do not grudge their
gold for ornaments to decorate their persons."

"Ay," put in John Monson, "but they are consistent. Now I'll engage
this Mrs. Hundredacres, or Halfacre, or whatever her name may be,
overlooked her own household work, kept no housekeeper, higgled about
flour and butter, and lived half her time in her basement. Think of
such a woman's giving her daughter a hundred-dollar
pocket-handkerchief."

Now Mrs. Monson DID keep a housekeeper; she was NOT a mere
upper-servant in her own family, and Julia was gratified that, in this
instance, her fastidious brother could not reproach HER at least.

"Well, Jack, that is a queer reason of yours;" cried the father, "for
not indulging in a luxury; because the good woman is careful in some
things, she is not to be a little extravagant in others. What do YOU
say to such logic, Mr. Shoreham?"

"To own the truth, sir, I am much of Monson's way of thinking. It is as
necessary to begin at the bottom in constructing a scheme of domestic
refinement, as in building a house. Fitness is entitled to a place in
every thing that relates to taste, at all events; and as a laced and
embroidered pocket-handkerchief is altogether for appearance, it
becomes necessary that other things should be in keeping. If the ladies
will excuse me, I will say that I never yet saw a woman in America, in
a sufficiently high dress to justify such an appendage as that which
Monson has just mentioned. The handkerchief ought not to cost more than
the rest of the toilette."

"It is true, Mr. Shoreham," put in Julia, with vivacity, if not with
spirit, "that our women do not dress as women of rank sometimes dress
in Europe; but, on the whole, I do not know that we are so much behind
them in appearance."

"Very far from it, my dear Miss Monson—as far as possible—I am the
last man to decry my beautiful countrywomen, who are second to no
others in appearance, certainly; if they do not dress as richly, it is
because they do not need it. Mademoiselle Hennequin has no reason to
deprecate comparisons—and—but—"

"Certainly," answered the governess, when she found the young man
hesitated about proceeding, "certainly; I am not so bigoted, or so
blind, as to wish to deny that the American ladies are very
handsome—handsomer, as a whole, than those of my own country. It would
be idle to deny it—so are those of England and Italy."

"This is being very liberal, Mademoiselle Hennequin, and more than you
are required to admit," observed Mrs. Monson, in the kindest possible
tone of voice, and I make no manner of doubt with a most benevolent
smile, though I could not see her. "Some of the most brilliantly
beautiful women I have ever seen, have been French—perhaps the MOST
brilliantly beautiful."

"That is true, also, madame; but such is not the rule, I think. Both
the English and Americans seem to me handsomer, as a whole, than my own
countrywomen." Now, nothing could be sweeter, or softer, or gentler,
than the voice that made this great concession—for great it certainly
was, as coming from a woman. It appeared to me that the admission, too,
was more than commonly generous, from the circumstance that the
governess was not particularly pretty in her own person. It is true, I
had not yet seen her, but my mesmeritic impulses induced me to fancy as
much.

"What say the YOUNG gentlemen to this?" asked Mr. Monson, laughing.
"This is a question not to be settled altogether by ladies, old or
young."

"Betts Shoreham has substantially told you what HE thinks; and now I
claim a right to give MY opinion," cried John Monson. "Like Betts, I
will not decry my countrywomen, but I shall protest against the
doctrine of their having ALL the beauty in the world. By Jove! I have
seen in ONE opera-house at Rome, more beautiful women than I ever saw
together, before or since, in any other place. Broadway never equals
the corso, of a carnival."

{corso, of a carnival = the Corso, a main street in Rome, at Carnival
time}

"This is not sticking to the subject," observed Mrs. Monson.
"Pocket-handkerchiefs and housekeepers are our themes, and not pretty
women. Mademoiselle Hennequin, you are French enough, I am sure, to
like more sugar in your tea."

This changed the subject, which became a desultory discourse on the
news of the day. I could not understand half that was said, laboring
under the disadvantage of being shut up in a close drawer, on another
floor; and that, too, with six dozen of chattering French gloves lying
within a foot of me. Still I saw plainly enough, that Mademoiselle
Hennequin, notwithstanding she was a governess, was a favorite in the
family; and, I may add, out of it also—Betts Shoreham being no sort of
a connection of the Monsons. I thought, moreover, that I discovered
signs of cross-purposes, as between the young people, though I think a
pocket-handkerchief subject to those general laws, concerning secrets,
that are recognized among all honorable persons. Not having been
actually present on this occasion, should I proceed to relate ALL that
passed, or that I fancied passed, it would be degrading myself to the
level of those newspapers which are in the habit of retailing private
conversations, and which, like most small dealers in such things, never
retail fairly.

I saw no more of my mistress for a week. I have reason to think that
she had determined never to use me; but female resolutions, in matters
of dress, are not of the most inflexible nature. There was a certain
Mrs. Leamington, in New York, who gave a great ball about this time,
and being in the same set as the Monsons, the family was invited as a
matter of course. It would have surpassed the powers of self-denial to
keep me in the back-ground on such an occasion; and Julia, having first
cleared the way by owning her folly to a very indulgent father, and a
very tormenting brother, determined nobly to bring me out, let the
effect on Betts Shoreham be what it might. As the father had no female
friends to trouble him, he was asked to join the Monsons—the intimacy
fully warranting the step.

Julia never looked more lovely than she did that night. She anticipated
much pleasure, and her smiles were in proportion to her anticipations.
When all was ready, she took me from the drawer, let a single drop of
lavender fall in my bosom, and tripped down stairs toward the
drawing-room; Betts Shoreham and Mademoiselle Hennequin were together,
and, for a novelty, alone. I say, for a novelty, because the governess
had few opportunities to see any one without the presence of a third
person, and because her habits, as an unmarried and well educated
French woman, indisposed her to tete-a-tetes with the other sex. My
mistress was lynx-eyed in all that related to Betts Shoreham and the
governess. A single glance told her that their recent conversation had
been more than usually interesting; nor could I help seeing it
myself—the face of the governess being red, or in that condition
which, were she aught but a governess, would be called suffused with
blushes. Julia felt uncomfortable—she felt herself to be de trop; and
making an incoherent excuse, she had scarcely taken a seat on a sofa,
before she arose, left the room, and ran up stairs again. In doing so,
however, the poor girl left me inadvertently on the sofa she had so
suddenly quitted herself.

{de trop = one too many}

Betts Shoreham manifested no concern at this movement, though
Mademoiselle Hennequin precipitately changed her seat, which had been
quite near—approximately near, as one might say—to the chair occupied
by the gentleman. This new evolution placed the governess close at my
side. Now whatever might have been the subject of discourse between
these two young persons—for Mademoiselle Hennequin was quite as
youthful as my mistress, let her beauty be as it might—it was not
continued in my presence; on the contrary, the young lady turned her
eyes on me, instead of looking at her companion, and then she raised me
in her hand, and commenced a critical examination of my person.

"That is a very beautiful handkerchief, Mademoiselle Hennequin," said
Betts Shoreham, making the remark an excuse for following the young
lady to the sofa. "Had we heard of its existence, our remarks the other
night, on such a luxury, might have been more guarded."

No answer was given. The governess gazed on me intently, and tears
began to course down her cheeks, notwithstanding it was evident she
wished to conceal them. Ashamed of her weakness, she endeavored to
smile them away, and to appear cheerful.

"What is there in that pocket-handkerchief, dear Mademoiselle
Hennequin," asked Betts Shoreham, who had a pernicious habit of calling
young ladies with whom he was on terms of tolerable intimacy,
"dear,"—a habit that sometimes misled persons as to the degree of
interest he felt in his companions—"what CAN there be in that
pocket-handkerchief to excite tears from a mind and a heart like yours?"

"My mind and heart, Mr. Shoreham, are not as faultless, perhaps, as
your goodness would make them out to be. ENVY is a very natural feeling
for a woman in matters of dress, they say; and, certainly, I am not the
owner of so beautiful a pocket-handkerchief—pardon me, Mr. Shoreham; I
cannot command myself, and must be guilty of the rudeness of leaving
you alone, if——"

Mademoiselle Hennequin uttered no more, but rushed from the room, with
an impetuosity of manner and feeling that I have often had occasion to
remark in young French women. As a matter of course, I was left alone
with Betts Shoreham.

I shall conceal nothing that ought to be told. Betts Shoreham,
notwithstanding her dependent situation, and his own better fortunes,
loved the governess, and the governess loved Betts Shoreham. These were
facts that I discovered at a later day, though I began to suspect the
truth from that moment. Neither, however, knew of the other's passion,
though each hoped as an innocent and youthful love will hope, and each
trembled as each hoped. Nothing explicit had been said that evening;
but much, very much, in the way of sympathy and feeling had been
revealed, and but for the inopportune entrance of Julia and myself, all
might have been told.

CHAPTER XV.

There is no moment in the life of man, when he is so keenly sensitive
on the subject of the perfection of his mistress, as that in which he
completely admits her power. All his jealousy is actively alive to the
smallest shade of fault, although his feelings so much indispose him to
see any blemish. Betts Shoreham felt an unpleasant pang, even—yes, it
amounted to a pang—for in a few moments he would have offered his
hand—and men cannot receive any drawback with indifference at such an
instant—he felt an unpleasant pang, then, as the idea crossed his mind
that Mademoiselle Hennequin could be so violently affected by a feeling
as unworthy as that of envy. He had passed several years abroad, and
had got the common notion about the selfishness of the French, and more
particularly their women, and his prejudices took the alarm. But his
love was much the strongest, and soon looked down the distrust, however
reasonable, under the circumstances, the latter might have appeared to
a disinterested and cool-headed observer. He had seen so much meek and
pure-spirited self-denial; so much high principle in the conduct of
Mademoiselle Hennequin, during an intimacy which had now lasted six
months, that no passing feeling of doubt, like the one just felt, could
unsettle the confidence created by her virtues. I know it may take more
credit than belongs to most pocket-handkerchiefs, to maintain the
problem of the virtues of a French governess—a class of unfortunate
persons that seem doomed to condemnation by all the sages of our modern
imaginative literature. An English governess, or even an American
governess, if, indeed, there be such a being in nature, may be every
thing that is respectable, and prudent, and wise, and good; but the
French governess has a sort of ex-officio moral taint about her, that
throws her without the pale of literary charities. Nevertheless, one or
two of the most excellent women I have ever known, have been French
governesses, though I do not choose to reveal what this particular
individual of the class turned out to be in the end, until the moment
for the denouement of her character shall regularly arrive.

There was not much time for Betts Shoreham to philosophize, and
speculate on female caprices and motives, John Monson making his
appearance in as high evening dress as well comported with what is
called "republican simplicity." John was a fine looking fellow, six
feet and an inch, with large whiskers, a bushy head of hair, and
particularly white teeth. His friend was two inches shorter, of much
less showy appearance, but of a more intellectual countenance, and of
juster proportions. Most persons, at first sight, would praise John
Monson's person and face, but all would feel the superiority of Betts
Shoreham's, on an acquaintance. The smile of the latter, in particular,
was as winning and amiable as that of a girl. It was that smile, on the
one hand, and his active, never dormant sympathy for her situation, on
the other, which, united, had made such an inroad on the young
governess's affections.

"It's deuced cold, Betts," said John, as he came near the fire; "this
delightful country of ours has some confounded hard winters. I wonder
if it be patriotic to say, OUR winters?"

"It's all common property, Monson—but, what have become of your sister
and Mademoiselle Hennequin? They were both here a minute since, and
have vanished like—"

"What?—ghosts!—no, you dare not call them THAT, lest their spirits
take it in dudgeon. Julie is no ghost, though she is sometimes so
delicate and ethereal, and as for Henny—"

"Who?" exclaimed Betts, doubting if his ears were true.

"Henny, Tote and Moll's governess. Whom do you think I could mean,
else? I always call her Henny, en famille, and I look upon you as
almost one of us since our travels."

{en famille = at home}

"I'm sure I can scarcely be grateful enough, my dear fellow—but, you
do not call her so to her face?"

"Why—no—perhaps not exactly in her very teeth—and beautiful teeth
she has, Betts—Julie's won't compare with them."

"Yes, Henny has the best teeth of any girl I know. They are none of
your pearls—some pearls are yellowish, you know—but they are teeth;
just what ought to be in a handsome girl's mouth. I have no objection
to pearls in a necklace, or in the pockets, but TEETH are what are
wanted in a mouth, and Henny has just the finest set I know of."

Betts Shoreham fidgetted at the "Henny," and he had the weakness, at
the moment, to wish the young governess were not in a situation to be
spoken of so unceremoniously. He had not time to express this feeling,
before John Monson got a glimpse of me, and had me under examination
beneath the light of a very powerful lamp. I declare that, knowing his
aversion to our species, I felt a glow in all my system at the
liberties he was taking.

"What have we here?" exclaimed John Monson, in surprise; "has Miss
Flowergarden made a call, and is this her card?"

"I believe that pocket-handkerchief belongs to your sister," answered
Betts, drily, "if that be what you mean."

"Jule! well, I am sorry to hear it. I did hope that no sister of MINE
would run into any such foolish extravagance—do you own it, Jule?" who
entered the room at that instant—"is this bit of a rag yours, or is it
not more likely to be Henny's?"

"Bit of a rag!" cried the sister, snatching me dexterously out of the
spoiler's hands; "and 'Henny,' too! This is not a bit of a rag, sir,
but a very pretty pocket-handkerchief, and you must very well know that
Mademoiselle Hennequin is not likely to be the owner of any thing as
costly."

"And what did it cost, pray? At least tell me THAT, if nothing else."

"I shall not gratify your curiosity, sir—a lady's wardrobe is not to
be dissected in this manner."

"Pray, sir, may I ask," Mr. Monson now coming in, "did you pay for
Jule's handkerchief? Hang me, if I ever saw a more vulgar thing in my
life."

"The opinion is not likely to induce me to say yes," answered the
father, half-laughing, and yet half-angry at his son's making such
allusions before Betts—"never mind him, my dear; the handkerchief is
not half as expensive as his own cigars."

"It shall be as thoroughly smoked, nevertheless," rejoined John, who
was as near being spoilt, and escaping, as was at all necessary. "Ah,
Julie, Julie, I'm ashamed of thee."

This was an inauspicious commencement for an evening from which so much
happiness had been anticipated, but Mrs. Monson coming down, and the
carriages driving to the door, Mademoiselle Hennequin was summoned, and
the whole party left the house.

As a matter of course, it was a little out of the common way that the
governess was asked to make one, in the invitations given to the
Monsons. But Mademoiselle Hennequin was a person of such perfect bon
ton, had so thoroughly the manners of a lady, and was generally reputed
so accomplished, that most of the friends of the family felt themselves
bound to notice her. There was another reason, too, which justice
requires I should relate, though it is not so creditable to the young
lady, as those already given. From some quarter, or other, a rumor had
got abroad that Miss Monson's governess was of a noble family, a
circumstance that I soon discovered had great influence in New York,
doubtless by way of expiation for the rigid democratical notions that
so universally pervade its society. And here I may remark, en passant,
that while nothing is considered so disreputable in America as to be
"aristocratic" a word of very extensive signification, as it embraces
the tastes, the opinions, the habits, the virtues, and sometimes the
religion of the offending party—on the other hand, nothing is so
certain to attract attention as nobility. How many poor Poles have I
seen dragged about and made lions of, merely because they were reputed
noble, though the distinction in that country is pretty much the same
as that which exists in one portion of this great republic, where one
half the population is white, and the other black; the former making
the noble, and the latter the serf.

{make one = be included; bon ton = superior manners and culture; notice
her = include her socially; "aristocratic" = Cooper was hypersensitive
to accusations of being "aristocratic"; poor Poles = since his days in
Paris in the early 1830s, Cooper had befriended and aided Poles fleeing
Russian domination of their homeland}

"What an exceedingly aristocratic pocket-handkerchief Miss Monson has
this evening," observed Mrs. G. to Mr. W., as we passed into Mrs.
Leamington's rooms, that evening; "I don't know when I've seen any
thing so aristocratic in society."

"The Monsons are very aristocratic in all things; I understand they
dine at six."

"Yes," put in Miss F., "and use finger bowls every day."

"How aristocratic!"

"Very—they even say that since they have come back from Europe, the
last time, matters are pushed farther than ever. The ladies insist on
kneeling at prayers, instead of inclining, like all the rest of the
world."

"Did one ever hear of any thing so aristocratic!"

"They DO say, but I will not vouch for its truth, that Mr. and Mrs.
Monson insist on all their children calling them 'father' and 'mother,'
instead of 'pa' and 'ma.'"

"Why, Mr. W., that is downright monarchical, is it not?"

"It's difficult to say what is, and what is not monarchical,
now-a-days; though I think one is pretty safe in pronouncing it
anti-republican."

"It is patriarchal, rather," observed a wit, who belonged to the group.

Into this "aristocratical" set I was now regularly introduced. Many
longing and curious eyes were drawn toward me, though the company in
this house was generally too well bred to criticise articles of dress
very closely. Still, in every country, aristocracy, monarchy, or
democracy, there are privileged classes, and in all companies
privileged persons. One of the latter took the liberty of asking Julia
to leave me in her keeping, while the other danced, and I was thus
temporarily transferred to a circle, in which several other
pocket-handkerchiefs had been collected, with a view to compare our
several merits and demerits. The reader will judge of my surprise,
when, the examination being ended, and the judgment being rendered
altogether in my favor, I found myself familiarly addressed by the name
that I bore in the family circle, or, as No. 7; for
pocket-handkerchiefs never speak to each other except on the principle
of decimals. It was No. 12, or my relative of the extreme cote gauche,
who had strangely enough found his way into this very room, and was now
lying cheek by jowl with me again, in old Mrs. Eyelet's lap. Family
affection made us glad to meet, and we had a hundred questions to put
to each other in a breath.

{cote gauche = left wing, politically}

No. 12 had commenced life a violent republican, and this simply because
he read nothing but republican newspapers; a sufficiently simple
reason, as all know who have heard both sides of any question. Shortly
after I was purchased by poor, dear Adrienne, a young American traveler
had stepped into the magasin, and with the recklessness that
distinguishes the expenditures of his countrymen, swept off half a
dozen of the family at one purchase. Accident gave him the liberal end
of the piece, a circumstance to which he never would have assented had
he known the fact, for being an attache of the legation of his own
country, he was ex officio aristocratic. My brother amused me
exceedingly with his account of the indignation he felt at finding
himself in a very hot-bed of monarchical opinions, in the set at the
American legation. What rendered these diplomates so much the more
aristocratic, was the novelty of the thing, scarcely one of them having
been accustomed to society at home. After passing a few months in such
company, my brother's boss, who was a mere traveling diplomatist, came
home and began to run a brilliant career in the circles of New York, on
the faith of a European reputation. Alas! there is in
pocket-handkerchief nature a disposition to act by contraries. The
"more you call, the more I won't come" principle was active in poor No.
12's mind, and he had not been a month in New York society, before he
came out an ultra monarchist. New York society has more than one of
these sudden political conversions to answer for. It is such a thorough
development of the democratic principle, that the faith of few
believers is found strong enough to withstand it. Every body knows how
much a prospect varies by position. Thus, you shall stand on the
aristocratic side of a room filled with company, and every thing will
present a vulgar and democratic appearance; or, vice versa, you shall
occupy a place among the oi polloi, and all is aristocratic, exclusive,
and offensive. So it had proved with my unfortunate kinsman. All his
notions had changed; instead of finding the perfection he had preached
and extolled so long, he found nothing to admire, and every thing to
condemn. In a word, never was a pocket-handkerchief so miserable, and
that, too, on grounds so philosophical and profound, met with, on its
entrance into active life. I do believe, if my brother could have got
back to France, he would have written a book on America, which, while
it overlooked many vices and foibles that deserve to be cut up without
mercy, would have thrown even de Tocqueville into the shade in the way
of political blunders. But I forbear; this latter writer being
unanswerable among those neophytes who having never thought of their
own system, unless as Englishmen, are overwhelmed with admiration at
finding any thing of another character advanced about it. At least,
such are the sentiments entertained by a very high priced
pocket-handkerchief.

{magasin = shop; ex-officio = by virtue of his position—Cooper
frequently criticized American diplomats for taking on the conservative
views of the monarchial governments to which they were accredited; oi
polloi = common people, rabble (Greek); de Tocqueville = Alexis de
Tocqueville = French writer (1805-1859), famous for his account of
American culture, "Democracy in America" (1835 and 1840)—Cooper had
provided Tocqueville with letters of introduction for his 1832 American
visit, but resented the extreme admiration accorded his book}

Mademoiselle Hennequin, I took occasion to remark, occupied much of the
attention of Betts Shoreham, at Mrs. Leamington's ball. They understood
each other perfectly, though the young man could not get over the
feeling created by the governess's manner when she first met with me.
Throughout the evening, indeed, her eye seemed studiously averted from
me, as if she struggled to suppress certain sentiments or sensations,
that she was unwilling to betray. Now, these sentiments, if sentiments
they were, or sensations, as they were beyond all dispute, might be
envy—repinings at another's better fortunes—or they might be excited
by philosophical and commendable reflections touching those follies
which so often lead the young and thoughtless into extravagance. Betts
tried hard to believe them the last, though, in his inmost heart, he
would a thousand times rather that the woman he loved should smile on a
weakness of this sort, in a girl of her own age, than that she should
show herself to be prematurely wise, if it was wisdom purchased at the
expense of the light-heartedness and sympathies of her years and sex.
On a diminished scale, I had awakened in his bosom some such uneasy
distrust as the pocket-handkerchief of Desdemona is known to have
aroused in that of the Moor.

{Shakespeare, "Othello"}

Nor can I say that Julia Monson enjoyed herself as much as she had
anticipated. Love she did not Betts Shoreham; for that was a passion
her temperament and training induced her to wait for some pretty
unequivocal demonstrations on the part of the gentleman before she
yielded to it; but she LIKED him vastly, and nothing would have been
easier than to have blown this smouldering preference into a flame. She
was too young, and, to say the truth, too natural and uncalculating, to
be always remembering that Betts owned a good old-fashioned landed
estate that was said to produce twenty, and which did actually produce
eleven thousand a year, nett; and that his house in the country was
generally said to be one of the very best in the state. For all this
she cared absolutely nothing, or nothing worth mentioning. There were
enough young men of as good estates, and there were a vast many of no
estates at all, ready and willing to take their chances in the "cutting
up" of "old Monson," but there were few who were as agreeable, as well
mannered, as handsome, or who had seen as much of the world, as Betts
Shoreham. Of course, she had never fancied the young man in love with
herself, but, previously to the impression she had quite recently
imbibed of his attachment to her mother's governess, she had been
accustomed to think such a thing MIGHT come to pass, and that she
should not be sorry if it did.

I very well understand this is not the fashionable, or possibly the
polite way of describing those incipient sentiments which form the germ
of love in the virgin affections of young ladies, and that a skillful
and refined poet would use very different language on the occasion; but
I began this history to represent things as they are, and such is the
manner in which "Love's Young Dream" appears to a pocket-handkerchief.

{"Love's Young Dream" = popular poem by Thomas Moore (1780-1852)}

Among other things that were unpleasant, Miss Monson was compelled to
overhear sundry remarks of Betts's devotion to the governess, as she
stood in the dance, some of which reached me, also.

"Who is the lady to whom Mr. Shoreham is so devoue this evening?" asked
Miss N. of Miss T. "'Tis quite a new face, and, if one might be so
presuming, quite a new manner."

{devoue = devoted, attentive}

"That is Mademoiselle Henny, the governess of Mrs. Monson's children,
my dear. They say she is all accomplishments, and quite a miracle of
propriety. It is also rumored that she is, some way, a very
distinguished person, reduced by those horrid revolutions of which they
have so many in Europe."

"Noble, I dare say!"

"Oh! that at least. Some persons affirm that she is semi-ROYAL. The
country is full of broken-down royalty and nobility. Do you think she
has an aristocratic air?"

"Not in the least—her ears are too small."

"Why, my dear, that is the very symbol of nobility! When my Aunt
Harding was in Naples, she knew the Duke of Montecarbana, intimately;
and she says he had the smallest ears she ever beheld on a human being.
The Montecarbanas are a family as old as the ruins of Paestum, they
say."

{Paestum = ancient Roman city outside Naples}

"Well, to my notion, nobility and teaching little girls French and
Italian, and their gammes, have very little in common. I had thought
Mr. Shoreham an admirer of Miss Monson's."

{gammes = musical scales}

Now, unfortunately, my mistress overheard this remark. Her feelings
were just in that agitated state to take the alarm, and she determined
to flirt with a young man of the name of Thurston, with a view to
awaken Betts's jealousy, if he had any, and to give vent to her own
spleen. This Tom Thurston was one of those tall, good-looking young
fellows who come from, nobody knows where, get into society, nobody
knows how, and live on, nobody knows what. It was pretty generally
understood that he was on the look-out for a rich wife, and
encouragement from Julia Monson was not likely to be disregarded by
such a person. To own the truth, my mistress carried matters much too
far—so far, indeed, as to attract attention from every body but those
most concerned; viz. her own mother and Betts Shoreham. Although
elderly ladies play cards very little, just now, in American society,
or, indeed, in any other, they have their inducements for rendering the
well-known office of matron at a ball, a mere sinecure. Mrs. Monson,
too, was an indulgent mother, and seldom saw any thing very wrong in
her own children. Julia, in the main, had sufficient retenue, and a
suspicion of her want of discretion on this point, was one of the last
things that would cross the fond parent's mind at Mrs. Leamington's
ball. Others, however, were less confiding.

{retenue = discretion}

"Your daughter is in HIGH SPIRITS to-night," observed a single lady of
a certain age, who was sitting near Mrs. Monson; "I do not remember to
have ever seen her so GAY."

"Yes, dear girl, she IS happy,"—poor Julia was any thing but THAT,
just then—"but youth is the time for happiness, if it is ever to come
in this life."

"Is Miss Monson addicted to such VERY high spirits?" continued one, who
was resolute to torment, and vexed that the mother could not be
sufficiently alarmed to look around.

"Always—when in agreeable company. I think it a great happiness,
ma'am, to possess good spirits."

"No doubt—yet one needn't be always fifteen, as Lady Wortley Montague
said," muttered the other, giving up the point, and changing her seat,
in order that she might speak her mind more freely into the ear of a
congenial spirit.

Half an hour later we were all in the carriages, again, on our way
home; all, but Betts Shoreham, I should say, for having seen the ladies
cloaked, he had taken his leave at Mrs. Leamington's door, as uncertain
as ever whether or not to impute envy to a being who, in all other
respects, seemed to him to be faultless. He had to retire to an uneasy
pillow, undetermined whether to pursue his original intention of making
the poor friendless French girl independent, by an offer of his hand,
or whether to decide that her amiable and gentle qualities were all
seeming, and that she was not what she appeared to be. Betts Shoreham
owed his distrust to national prejudice, and well was he paid for
entertaining so vile a companion. Had Mademoiselle Hennequin been an
American girl, he would not have thought a second time of the emotion
she had betrayed in regarding my beauties; but he had been taught to
believe all French women managing and hypocritical; a notion that the
experience of a young man in Paris would not be very likely to destroy.

{managing = manipulative}

"Well," cried John Monson, as the carriage drew from Mrs. Leamington's
door, "this is the last ball I shall go to in New York;" which
declaration he repeated twenty times that season, and as often broke.

"What is the matter now, Jack?" demanded the father. "I found it very
pleasant—six or seven of us old fellows made a very agreeable evening
of it."

"Yes, I dare say, sir; but you were not compelled to dance in a room
eighteen by twenty-four, with a hundred people treading on your toes,
or brushing their heads in your face."

"Jack can find no room for dancing since the great ball of the Salle de
l'Opera, at Paris," observed the mother smiling. "I hope YOU enjoyed
yourself better, Julia?"

{Salle de l'Opera = Paris Opera House—the building referred to by
Cooper served as Opera House from 1821-1873 and was replaced by the
present building in 1874}

My mistress started; then she answered with a sort of hysterical glee—

"Oh! I have found the evening delightful, ma'am. I could have remained
two hours longer."

"Certainly, madame," she said, "I have enjoyed myself; though dancing
always seems an amusement I have no right to share in."

There was some little embarrassment, and I could perceive an impulse in
Julia to press nearer to her rival, as if impelled by a generous wish
to manifest her sympathy. But Tom's protest soon silenced every thing
else, and we alighted, and soon went to rest.

The next morning Julia sent for me down to be exhibited to one or two
friends, my fame having spread in consequence of my late appearance. I
was praised, kissed, called a pretty dear, and extolled like a spoiled
child, though Miss W. did not fail to carry the intelligence, far and
near, that Miss Monson's much-talked-of pocket-handkerchief was nothing
after all but the THING Miss Halfacre had brought out the night of the
day her father had stopped payment. Some even began to nick-name me the
insolvent pocket-handkerchief.

I thought Julia sad, after her friends had all left her. I lay
neglected on a sofa, and the pretty girl's brow became thoughtful. Of a
sudden she was aroused from a brown study—reflective mood, perhaps,
would be a more select phrase—by the unexpected appearance of young
Thurston. There was a sort of "Ah! have I caught you alone!" expression
about this adventurer's eye, even while he was making his bow, that
struck me. I looked for great events, nor was I altogether
disappointed. In one minute he was seated at Julia's side, on the same
sofa, and within two feet of her; in two more he had brought in play
his usual tricks of flattery. My mistress listened languidly, and yet
not altogether without interest. She was piqued at Betts Shoreham's
indifference, had known her present admirer several months, if dancing
in the same set can be called KNOWING, and had never been made love to
before, at least in a manner so direct and unequivocal. The young man
had tact enough to discover that he had an advantage, and fearful that
some one might come in and interrupt the tete a tete, he magnanimously
resolved to throw all on a single cast, and come to the point at once.

"I think, Miss Monson," he continued, after a very beautiful specimen
of rigmarole in the way of love-making, a rigmarole that might have
very fairly figured in an editor's law and logic, after he had been
beaten in a libel suit, "I think, Miss Monson, you cannot have
overlooked the VERY particular attentions I have endeavored to pay you,
ever since I have been so fortunate as to have made your acquaintance?"

"I!—Upon my word, Mr. Thurston, I am not at all conscious of having
been the object of any such attentions!"

"No?—That is ever the way with the innocent and single-minded! This is
what we sincere and diffident men have to contend with in affairs of
the heart. Our bosoms may be torn with ten thousand distracting cares,
and yet the modesty of a truly virtuous female heart shall be so
absorbed in its own placid serenity as to be indifferent to the pangs
it is unconsciously inflicting!"

"I dare say—ma'am—I never expect to be intelligible again. When the
'heart is oppressed with unutterable anguish, condemned to conceal that
passion which is at once the torment and delight of life'—when 'his
lip, the ruby harbinger of joy, lies pale and cold, the miserable
appendage of a mang—' that is, Miss Monson, I mean to say, when all
our faculties are engrossed by one dear object we are often incoherent
and mysterious, as a matter of course."

Tom Thurston came very near wrecking himself on the quicksands of the
romantic school. He had begun to quote from a speech delivered by
Gouverneur Morris, on the right of deposit at New Orleans, and which he
had spoken at college, and was near getting into a part of the subject
that might not have been so apposite, but retreated in time. By way of
climax, the lover laid his hand on me, and raised me to his eyes in an
abstracted manner, as if unconscious of what he was doing, and wanted
to brush away a tear.

{Gouverneur Morris = American Federalist leader and diplomat
(1752-1816)—a 1795 American treaty with Spain granted the United
States the right of navigation on the Mississippi River and to deposit
goods at New Orleans without paying customs duties}

"What a confounded rich old fellow the father must be," thought Tom,
"to give her such pocket-handkerchiefs!"

I felt like a wren that escapes from the hawk when the rogue laid me
down.

Alas! Poor Julia was the dupe of all this acting. Totally unpracticed
herself, abandoned by the usages of the society in which she had been
educated very much to the artifices of any fortune-hunter, and vexed
with Betts Shoreham, she was in the worst possible frame of mind to
resist such eloquence and love. She had seen Tom at all the balls in
the best houses, found no fault with his exterior and manners, both of
which were fashionable and showy, and now discovered that he had a most
sympathetic heart, over which, unknown to herself, she had obtained a
very unlimited control.

"You do not answer me, Miss Monson," continued Tom peeping out at one
side of me, for I was still at his eyes—"you do not answer me, cruel,
inexorable girl!"

"What WOULD you have me say, Mr. Thurston?"

"Say YES, dearest, loveliest, most perfect being of the whole human
family."

"YES, then; if that will relieve your mind, it is a relief very easily
bestowed."

Now, Tom Thurston was as skilled in a fortune-hunter's wiles as
Napoleon was in military strategy. He saw he had obtained an immense
advantage for the future, and he forbore to press the matter any
further at the moment. The "yes" had been uttered more in pleasantry
than with any other feeling, but, by holding it in reserve, presuming
on it gradually, and using it in a crisis, it might be worth—"let me
see," calculated Tom, as he went whistling down Broadway, "that 'yes'
may be made to yield at least a cool $100,000. There are John, this
girl, and two little ones. Old Monson is worth every dollar of
$700,000—none of your skyrockets, but a known, old fortune, in
substantial houses and lands—let us suppose the old woman outlive him,
and that she gets her full thirds; THAT will leave $466,660. Perhaps
John may get a couple of hundred thousand, and even THEN each of the
girls will have $88,888. If one of the little things should happen to
die, and there's lots of scarlet fever about, why that would fetch it
up at once to a round hundred thousand. I don't think the old woman
would be likely to marry again at her time of life. One mustn't
calculate too confidently on THAT, however, as I would have her myself
for half of SUCH thirds."

{full thirds = Old Monson's widow would under American common law
receive a life interest in one-third of his real property, called a
dower right, which would revert to his children if she died without
remarrying.}

CHAPTER XVI.

For a week nothing material transpired. All that time I lay in the
drawer, gaining a knowledge of what passed, in the best manner I could.
Betts Shoreham was a constant visitor at the house, and Tom Thurston
made his appearance with a degree of punctuality that began to attract
notice, among the inmates of the house on the opposite side of the
street. All this time, however, Tom treated Julia with the greatest
respect, and even distance, turning more of his attention toward Mrs.
Monson. He acted in this manner, because he thought he had secured a
sufficient lien on the young lady, by means of her "yes," and knew how
important it was for one who could show none of the usual inducements
for consent, to the parents, to obtain the good-will of the "old lady."

At the end of the week, Mrs. Monson opened her house to receive the
world. As a matter of course, I was brought out on this occasion. Now,
Betts Shoreham and Mademoiselle Hennequin had made great progress
toward an understanding in the course of this week, though the lady
becoming more and more conscious of the interest she had created in the
heart of the gentleman, her own conduct got to be cautious and
reserved. At length, Betts actually carried matters so far as to write
a letter, that was as much to the point as a man could very well come.
In a word, he offered his hand to the excellent young French woman,
assuring her, in very passionate and suitable terms, that she had been
mistress of his affections ever since the first month of their
acquaintance. In this letter, he implored her not to be so cruel as to
deny him an interview, and there were a few exceedingly pretty
reproaches, touching her recent coy and reserved deportment.

Mademoiselle Hennequin was obliged to read this letter in Julia's room,
and she took such a position to do it, as exposed every line to my
impertinent gaze, as I lay on the bed, among the other finery that was
got out for the evening. Mrs. Monson was present, and she had summoned
the governess, in order to consult her on the subject of some of the
ornaments of the supper table. Fortunately, both Julia and her mother
were too much engaged to perceive the tears that rolled down the cheeks
of the poor stranger, as she read the honest declaration of a fervid
and manly love, nor did either detect the manner in which the letter
was pressed to Mademoiselle Hennequin's heart, when she had done
reading it the second time.

Just at this instant a servant came to announce Mr. Shoreham's presence
in the "breakfast-room." This was a retired and little frequented part
of the house at that hour, Betts having been shown into it, in
consequence of the preparations that were going on in the proper
reception-rooms.

"Julia, my dear, you will have to go below—although it is at a most
inconvenient moment."

"No, mother—let Mr. Betts Shoreham time his visits better—George, say
that the ladies are ENGAGED."

"That will not do," interrupted the mother, in some concern—"we are
too intimate for such an excuse—would YOU, Mademoiselle Hennequin,
have the goodness to see Mr. Shoreham for a few minutes—you must come
into our American customs sooner or later, and this may be a favorable
moment to commence."

Mrs. Monson laughed pleasantly as she made this request, and her
kindness and delicacy to the governess were too marked and unremitted
to permit the latter to think of hesitating. She had laid her own
handkerchief down at my side, to read the letter, but feeling the
necessity of drying her eyes, she caught me up by mistake, smiled her
assent, and left the apartment.

Mademoiselle Hennequin did not venture below, until she had gone into
her own room. Here she wept freely for a minute or two, and then she
bathed her eyes in cold water, and used the napkin in drying them.
Owing to this circumstance, I was fortunately a witness of all that
passed in her interview with her lover.

The instant Betts Shoreham saw that he was to have an interview with
the charming French girl, instead of with Julia Monson, his countenance
brightened; and, as if supposing the circumstance proof of his success,
he seized the governess' hand, and carried it to his lips in a very
carnivorous fashion. The lady, however, succeeded in retaining her
hand, if she did not positively preserve it from being devoured.

"A thousand, thousand thanks, dearest Mademoiselle Hennequin," said
Betts, in an incoherent, half-sane manner; "you have read my letter,
and I may interpret this interview favorably. I meant to have told all
to Mrs. Monson, had SHE come down, and asked her kind interference—but
it is much, much better as it is."

"You will do well, monsieur, not to speak to Madame Monson on the
subject at all," answered Mademoiselle Hennequin, with an expression of
countenance that I found quite inexplicable; since it was not happy,
nor was it altogether the reverse. "This must be our last meeting, and
it were better that no one knew any thing of its nature."

"Then my vanity—my hopes have misled me, and I have no interest in
your feelings!"

"I do not say THAT, monsieur; oh! non—non—I am far from saying as
much as THAT"—poor girl, her face declared a hundred times more than
her tongue, that she was sincere—"I do not—CANNOT say I have no
interest in one, who so generously overlooks my poverty, my utter
destitution of all worldly greatness, and offers to share with me his
fortune and his honorable position—"

"This is not what I ask—what I had hoped to earn—gratitude is not
love."

"Gratitude easily becomes love in a woman's heart"—answered the dear
creature, with a smile and a look that Betts would have been a mere
dolt not to have comprehended—"and it is my duty to take care that MY
gratitude does not entertain this weakness."

"Mademoiselle Hennequin, for mercy's sake, be as frank and simple as I
know your nature prompts—DO you, CAN you love me?"

Of course such a direct question, put in a very categorical way, caused
the questioned to blush, if it did not induce her to smile. The first
she did in a very pretty and engaging manner, though I thought she
hesitated about indulging in the last.

"Why should I say 'yes,' when it can lead to no good result?"

"Then destroy all hope at once, and say NO."

"That would be to give you—to give us both unnecessary pain. Besides,
it might not be strictly true—I COULD love—Oh! No one can tell how my
heart COULD love where it was right and proper."

After this, I suppose it is unnecessary for me to say, that Betts soon
brought the category of possibilities into one of certainty. To own the
truth, he carried every thing by his impetuosity, reducing the
governess to own that what she admitted she COULD do so well, she had
already done in a very complete and thorough manner. I enjoyed this
scene excessively, nor was it over in a minute. Mademoiselle Hennequin
used me several times to wipe away tears, and it is strong proof how
much both parties were thinking of other matters, that neither
discovered who was present at so interesting a tete-a-tete.

At length came the denouement. After confessing how much she loved
Betts, how happy she would be could she be his slave all the days of
her life, how miserable she was in knowing that he had placed his
affections on HER, and how much more miserable she should be, had she
learned he had NOT, Mademoiselle Hennequin almost annihilated the young
man by declaring that it was utterly impossible for her to consent to
become his wife. The reason was the difference in fortune, and the
impossibility that she should take advantage of his passion to lead him
into a connection that he might afterwards regret. Against this
decision, Betts reasoned warmly, but seriously, in vain. Had
Mademoiselle Hennequin been an American, instead of a French, girl, her
feelings would not have been so sensitive on this point, for, in this
great republic, every body but the fortune-hunters, an exceedingly
contemptible class, considers a match without money, quite as much a
matter of course, as a match with. But, the governess had been educated
under a different system, and it struck her imagination as very proper,
that she should make both herself and her lover miserable, because he
had two hundred thousand dollars, and she had not as many hundreds. All
this strangely conflicted with Betts' preconceived opinion of a French
woman's selfishness, and, while he was disposed to believe his adored
perfection, he almost feared it was a trick. Of such contradictory
materials is the human mind composed!

At length the eyes of Betts fell on me, who was still in the hand of
Mademoiselle Hennequin, and had several times been applied to her eyes
unheeded. It was evident I revived unpleasant recollections, and the
young man could not avoid letting an expression escape him, that
sufficiently betrayed his feelings.

"This handkerchief!" exclaimed the young governess—"Ah! it is that of
Mademoiselle Julie, which I must have taken by mistake. But, why should
this handkerchief awaken any feeling in you, monsieur? You are not
about to enact the Moor, in your days of wooing?"

{the Moor = from Shakespeare's "Othello"}

This was said sweetly, and withal a little archly, for the poor girl
was glad to turn the conversation from its harassing and painful
points; but Betts was in no humor for pleasantry, and he spoke out in a
way to give his mistress some clue to his thoughts.

"That cursed handkerchief"—it is really indecent in young men to use
such improper language, but they little heed what they say when
strongly excited—"that cursed handkerchief has given me as much pain,
as it appears also to have given you. I wish I knew the real secret of
its connection with your feelings; for I confess, like that of
Desdemona's, it has excited distrust, though for a very different
cause."

The cheeks of Mademoiselle Hennequin were pale, and her brow
thoughtful. Still, she had a sweet smile for Betts; and, though
ignorant of the nature of his suspicions, which she would have scarcely
pardoned, it was her strongest wish to leave no darker cloud between
them, than the one she felt it her duty to place there herself. She
answered, therefore, frankly and simply, though not without betraying
strong emotion as she proceeded.

"This handkerchief is well known to me," answered the young French
woman; "it revives the recollections of some of the most painful scenes
of a life that has never seen much sunshine. You have heard me speak of
a grandmother, Mr. Shoreham, who took care of my childhood, and who
died in my arms. That handkerchief, I worked for her support in her
last illness, and this lace—yes, this beautiful lace was a part of
that beloved grandmother's bridal trousseau. I put it where you see it,
to enhance the value of my labors."

"I see it all!" exclaimed the repentant Betts—"FEEL it all, dearest,
dearest Mademoiselle Hennequin; and I hope this exquisite work, this
refined taste brought all the comfort and reward you had a right to
anticipate."

A shade of anguish crossed the face of Adrienne—for it was no
other—as she gazed at me, and recalled all the scenes of her
sufferings and distress. Then I knew her again, for time and a poor
memory, with some development of person, had caused me to forget the
appearance of the lovely creature who may be said to have made me what
I am; but one glance at her, with that expression of intense suffering
on her countenance, renewed all my earlier impressions.

"I received as much as I merited, perhaps," returned the meek-minded
girl—for she was proud only in insisting on what she fancied
right—"and enough to give my venerated parent Christian burial. They
were days of want and sorrow that succeeded, during which, Betts, I
toiled for bread like an Eastern slave, the trodden-on and abused
hireling of a selfish milliner. Accident at length placed me in a
family as a governess. This family happened to be acquainted with
Madame Monson, and an offer that was brilliant to me, in my
circumstances, brought me to America. You see by all this how unfit I
am to be your wife, monsieur. You would blush to have it said you had
married a French milliner!"

"But you are not a milliner, in that sense, dearest Adrienne—for you
must suffer me to call you by that name—you are a lady reduced by
revolutions and misfortunes. The name of Hennequin I know is
respectable, and what care I for money, when so much worth is to be
found on your side of the scale. Money would only oppress me, under
such circumstances."

"Your generosity almost overcomes my scruples, but it may not be. The
name to which I am entitled is certainly not one to be ashamed of—it
is far more illustrious than that of Hennequin, respectable as is the
last; but of what account is a NAME to one in my condition!"

"And your family name is not Hennequin?" asked the lover, anxiously.

"It is not. My poor grandmother assumed the name of Hennequin, when we
went last to Paris, under an apprehension that the guillotine might
follow the revolution of July, as it had followed that of '89. This
name she enjoined it on me to keep, and I have never thought it prudent
to change it. I am of the family of de la Rocheaimard."

The exclamation which burst from the lips of Betts Shoreham, betokened
both surprise and delight. He made Adrienne repeat her declarations,
and even desired her to explain her precise parentage. The reader will
remember, that there had been an American marriage in Adrienne's
family, and that every relative the poor girl had on earth, was among
these distant connections on this side of the Atlantic. One of these
relatives, though it was no nearer than a third cousin, was Betts
Shoreham, whose great-grandmother had been a bona fide de la
Rocheaimard, and who was enabled, at once, to point out to the poor
deserted orphan some forty or fifty persons, who stood in the same
degree of affinity to her. It is needless to say that this conversation
was of absorbing interest to both; so much so, indeed, that Betts
momentarily forgot his love, and by the time it had ended, Adrienne was
disposed to overlook most of her over scrupulous objections to
rewarding that very passion. But the hour admonished them of the
necessity of separating.

"And now, my beloved cousin," said Betts Shoreham, as he rose to quit
the room, seizing Adrienne's unresisting hand—"now, my own Adrienne,
you will no longer urge your sublimated notions of propriety against my
suit. I am your nearest male relative, and have a right to your
obedience—and I command that you be the second de la Rocheaimard who
became the wife of a Shoreham."

"Tell me, mon cher cousin," said Adrienne, smiling through her
tears—"were your grand-parents, my good uncle and aunt, were they
happy? Was their union blessed?"

{mon cher cousin = my dear cousin}

"They were miracles of domestic felicity, and their happiness has
passed down in tradition, among all their descendants. Even religion
could not furnish them with a cause for misunderstanding. That example
which they set to the last century, we will endeavor to set to this."

Adrienne smiled, kissed her hand to Betts, and ran out of the room,
leaving me forgotten on the sofa. Betts Shoreham seized his hat, and
left the house, a happy man; for, though he had no direct promise as
yet, he felt as reasonably secure of success, as circumstances required.

CHAPTER XVII.

Five minutes later, Tom Thurston entered, and Julia Monson came down to
receive HIM, her pique not interfering, and it being rather stylish to
be disengaged on the morning of the day when the household was in all
the confusion of a premeditated rout.

{premeditated rout = planned party}

"This is SO good of you, Miss Monson," said Tom, as he made his bow—I
heard it all, being still on the sofa—"This is SO good of you, when
your time must have so many demands on it."

"Not in the least, Mr. Thurston—mamma and the housekeeper have settled
every thing, and I am really pleased to see you, as you can give me the
history of the new play—"

"Ah! Miss Monson, my heart—my faculties—my ideas—" Tom was getting
bothered, and he made a desperate effort to extricate himself—"In
short, my JUDGMENT is so confused and monopolized, that I have no
powers left to think or speak of plays. In a word, I was not there."

"The approach of this awful night. You will be surrounded by a host of
admirers, pouring into your ears their admiration and love, and then
what shall I have to support me, but that 'yes,' with which you once
raised me from the depths of despair to an elevation of happiness that
was high as the highest pinnacle of the caverns of Kentucky; raising me
from the depths of Chimborazo."

Tom meant to reverse this image, but love is proverbially desperate in
its figures of speech, and any thing was better than appearing to
hesitate. Nevertheless, Miss Monson was too well instructed, and had
too much real taste, not to feel surprise at all this extravagance of
diction and poetry.

"I am not certain, Mr. Thurston, that I rightly understand you," she
said. "Chimborazo is not particularly low, nor are the caverns of
Kentucky so strikingly elevated."

"Ascribe it all to that fatal, heart-thrilling, hope-inspiring 'yes,'
loveliest of human females," continued Tom, kneeling with some caution,
lest the straps of his pantaloons should give way—"Impute all to your
own lucid ambiguity, and to the torments of hope that I experience.
Repeat that 'yes,' lovely, consolatory, imaginative being, and raise me
from the thrill of depression, to the liveliest pulsations of all human
acmes."

But Julia did stand it. She admired Tom for his exterior, but the
admiration of no moderately sensible woman could overlook rodomontade
so exceedingly desperate. It was trespassing too boldly on the
proprieties to utter such nonsense to a gentlewoman, and Tom, who had
got his practice in a very low school, was doomed to discover that he
had overreached himself.

"I am not certain I quite understand you, Mr. Thurston," answered the
half-irritated, half-amused young lady; "your language is so very
extraordinary—your images so unusual—"

"Say, rather, that it is your own image, loveliest incorporation of
perceptible incarnations," interrupted Tom, determined to go for the
whole, and recalling some rare specimens of magazine eloquence—"Talk
not of images, obdurate maid, when you are nothing but an image
yourself."

"I! Mr. Thurston—and of what is it your pleasure to accuse me of being
the image?"

"O! unutterable wo—yes, inexorable girl, your vacillating 'yes' has
rendered me the impersonation of that oppressive sentiment, of which
your beauty and excellence have become the mocking reality. Alas, alas!
that bearded men,"—Tom's face was covered with hair—"Alas, alas! that
bearded men should be brought to weep over the contrarieties of womanly
caprice."

Here Tom bowed his head, and after a grunting sob or two, he raised his
handkerchief in a very pathetic manner to his face, and THOUGHT to
himself—"Well, if she stand THAT, the Lord only knows what I shall say
next."

As for Julia, she was amused, though at first she had been a little
frightened. The girl had a good deal of spirit, and she had tant soit
peu of mother Eve's love of mischief in her. She determined to "make
capital" out of the affair, as the Americans say, in shop-keeping slang.

{tant soit peu = an ever so tiny amount}

"What is the 'yes,' of which you speak," she inquired, "and, on which
you seem to lay so much stress?"

"That 'yes' has been my bane and antidote," answered Tom, rallying for
a new and still more desperate charge. "When first pronounced by your
rubicund lips, it thrilled on my amazed senses like a beacon of light—"

"Mr. Thurston—Mr. Thurston—what DO you mean?"

"Ah, d—n it," thought Tom, "I should have said HUMID light'—how the
deuce did I come to forget that word—it would have rounded the
sentence beautifully."

"What do I mean, angel of 'humid light,'" answered Tom, aloud; "I mean
all I say, and lots of feeling besides. When the heart is anguished
with unutterable emotion, it speaks in accents that deaden all the
nerves, and thrill the ears." Tom was getting to be animated, and when
that was the case, his ideas flowed like a torrent after a
thunder-shower, or in volumes, and a little muddily. "What do I mean,
indeed; I mean to have YOU," he THOUGHT, "and at least, eighty thousand
dollars, or dictionaries, Webster's inclusive, were made in vain."

"This is very extraordinary, Mr. Thurston," rejoined Julia, whose sense
of womanly propriety began to take the alarm; "and I must insist on an
explanation. Your language would seem to infer—really, I do not know,
what it does NOT seem to infer. Will you have the goodness to explain
what you mean by that 'yes?'"

"Simply, loveliest and most benign of your sex, that once already, in
answer to a demand of your hand, you deigned to reply with that
energetic and encouraging monosyllable, yes—dear and categorical
affirmative—" exclaimed Tom, going off again at half-cock, highly
impressed with the notion that rhapsody, instead of music, was the food
of love—"Yes, dear and categorical affirmative, with what ecstasy did
not my drowsy ears drink in the melodious sounds—what extravagance of
delight my throbbing heart echo its notes, on the wings of the unseen
winds—in short, what considerable satisfaction your consent gave my
pulsating mind!"

"Consent!—Consent is a strong WORD, Mr. Thurston!"

"It is, indeed, adorable Julia, and it is also a strong THING. I've
known terrible consequences arise from the denial of a consent, not
half as explicit as your own."

"Consequences!—may I ask, sir, to what consequences you allude?"

"The consequences, Miss Monson—that is, the consequences of a violated
troth, I mean—they may be divided into three parts—" here, Tom got
up, brushed his knees, each in succession, with his
pocket-handkerchief, and began to count on his fingers, like a lawyer
who is summing up an argument—"Yes, Miss Julia, into three parts.
First come the pangs of unrequited love; on these I propose to enlarge
presently. Next come the legal effects, always supposing that the
wronged party can summon heart enough to carry on a suit, with bruised
affections—" "hang it," thought Tom, "why did I not think of that word
'bruised' while on my knees; it would tell like a stiletto—" "Yes,
Miss Julia, if 'bruised affections' would permit the soul to descend to
such preliminaries. The last consequence is, the despair of hope
deferred."

"All this is so extraordinary, Mr. Thurston, that I insist on knowing
why you have presumed to address such language to me—yes, sir, INSIST
on knowing your reason."

Tom was dumbfounded. Now, that he was up, and looking about him, he had
an opportunity of perceiving that his mistress was offended, and that
he had somewhat overdone the sublime, poetical and affecting. With a
sudden revulsion of feeling and tactics, he determined to throw
himself, at once, into the penitent and candid.

"Ah, Miss Monson," he cried, somewhat more naturally—"I see I have
offended and alarmed you. But, impute it all to love. The strength of
my passion is such, that I became desperate, and was resolved to try
any expedient that I thought might lead to success."

"That might be pardoned, sir, were it not for the extraordinary
character of the expedient. Surely, you have never seen in me any taste
for the very extraordinary images and figures of speech you have used,
on this occasion."

"This handkerchief,"—said Tom, taking me from the sofa—"this
handkerchief must bear all the blame. But for this, I should not have
dreamt of running so much on the high-pressure principle; but love, you
know, Miss Julia, is a calculation, like any other great event of life,
and must be carried on consistently."

"And, pray, sir, how can that handkerchief have brought about any such
result?"

"Ah! Miss Monson, you ask me to use a most killing frankness! Had we
not better remain under the influence of the poetical star?"

"If you wish to ensure my respect, or esteem, Mr. Thurston, it is
necessary to deal with me in perfect sincerity. Nothing but truth will
ever be pleasing to me."

"Hang it," THOUGHT Tom, again, "who knows? She is whimsical, and may
really like to have the truth. It's quite clear her heart is as
insensible to eloquence and poetry, as a Potter's Field wall, and it
might answer to try her with a little truth. Your $80,000 girls get
SUCH notions in their heads, that there's no analogy, as one might say,
between them and the rest of the species. Miss Julia," continuing
aloud, "my nature is all plain-dealing, and I am delighted to find a
congenial spirit. You must have observed something very peculiar in my
language, at the commencement of this exceedingly interesting dialogue?"

"I will not deny it, Mr. Thurston; your language was, to say the least,
VERY peculiar."

"Lucid, but ambiguous; pathetic, but amusing; poetical, but
comprehensive; prosaical, but full of emphasis. That's my nature.
Plain-dealing, too, is my nature, and I adore the same quality in
others; most especially in those I could wish to marry."

"Certainly; when the heart is devoted to virtuous intentions, it wishes
for a union with virtue, where-ever it is to be found. Competence and
virtue are my mottoes, Miss Julia."

"This shows that you are, in truth, a lover of plain-dealing, Mr.
Thurston—and now, as to the handkerchief?"

"Why, Miss Julia, perceiving that you are sincere, I shall be equally
frank. You own this handkerchief?"

"Certainly, sir. I should hardly use an article of dress that is the
property of another."

"Independent, and the fruit of independence. Well, Miss Monson, it
struck me that the mistress of such a handkerchief MUST like
poetry—that is, flights of the imagination—that is, eloquence and
pathos, as it might be engrafted on passion and sentiment."

"I believe I understand you, sir; you wish to say that common sense
seemed misapplied to the owner of such a handkerchief."

"Far from that, adorable young lady; but, that poetry, and eloquence,
and flights of imagination, seem well applied. A very simple
calculation will demonstrate what I mean. But, possibly, you do not
wish to hear the calculation—ladies, generally, dislike figures?"

"I am an exception, Mr. Thurston; I beg you will lay the whole matter
before me, therefore, without reserve."

"It is simply this, ma'am. This handkerchief cost every cent of $100—"

"One hundred and twenty-five," said Julia quickly.

"Bless me," THOUGHT Tom, "what a rich old d—l her father must be. I
will not give her up; and as poetry and sentiment do not seem to be
favorites, here goes for frankness—some women are furious for plain
matter-of-fact fellows, and this must be one of the number. One hundred
and twenty-five dollars is a great deal of money," he added, aloud,
"and the interest, at 7 per cent, will come to $1.75. Including first
cost and washing, the annual expense of this handkerchief may be set
down at $2. But, the thing will not last now five years, if one
includes fashion, wear and tear, &c., and this will bring the whole
expense up to $27 per annum. We will suppose your fortune to be
$50,000, Miss Julia—"

Here Tom paused, and cast a curious glance at the young lady, in the
hope of hearing something explicit. Julia could hardly keep her
countenance, but she was resolved to go to the bottom of all this
plain-dealing.

"Well, sir," she answered, "we will suppose it, as you say, $50,000."

"The interest, then, would be $3,500. Now 27 multiplied by 130—" here
Tom took out his pencil and began to cypher—"make just 3510, or rather
more than the whole amount of the interest. Well, when you come to
deduct taxes, charges, losses and other things, the best invested
estate of $3,500 per annum, will not yield more than $3,000, nett.
Suppose a marriage, and the husband has ONLY $1,000 for his pocket,
this would bring down the ways and means to $2,000 per annum; or less
than a hundredth part of the expense of keeping ONE
pocket-handkerchief; and when you come to include rent, fuel,
marketing, and other necessaries, you see, my dear Miss Monson, there
is a great deal of poetry in paying so much for a pocket-handkerchief."

"I believe I understand you, sir, and shall endeavor to profit by the
lesson. As I am wanted, you will now excuse me, Mr. Thurston—my
father's step is in the hall—" so Julia, in common with all other
Manhattanese, called a passage, or entry, five feet wide—"and to him I
must refer you."

This was said merely as an excuse for quitting the room. But Tom
received it literally and figuratively, at the same time.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Accustomed to think of marrying as his means of advancement, he
somewhat reasonably supposed "refer you to my father" meant consent, so
far as the young lady was concerned, and he determined to improve the
precious moments. Fortunately for his ideas, Mr. Monson did not enter
the room immediately, which allowed the gentleman an opportunity for a
little deliberation. As usual, his thoughts took the direction of a
mental soliloquy, much in the following form.

"This is getting on famously," thought Tom. "Refer you to my
father—well, that is compact and comprehensive, at the same time. I
wish her dandruff had got up when I mentioned only $50,000. Seriously,
that is but a small sum to make one's way on. If I had a footing of my
own, in society, $50,000 MIGHT do; but, when a fellow has to work his
way by means of dinners, horses, and et ceteras, it's a small
allowance. It's true, the Monsons will give me connections, and
connections are almost—not quite—as good as money to get a chap along
with—but, the d—l of the matter is, that connections eat and drink. I
dare say the Monson set will cost me a good $500 a year, though they
will save something in the way of the feed they must give in their
turns. I wish I had tried her with a higher figure, for, after all, it
may have been only modesty—some women are as modest as the d—l. But
here comes old Monson, and I must strike while the iron is hot."

{dandruff = dander—but while "dander" can mean dandruff as well as
temper, the reverse is not true}

"Good morning, Mr. Thurston," said the father, looking a little
surprised at seeing such a guest at three o'clock. "What, alone with my
daughter's fine pocket-handkerchief? You must find that indifferent
company."

"Not under the circumstances, sir. Every thing is agreeable to us that
belongs to an object we love."

"Love? That is a strong term, Mr. Thurston—one that I hope you have
uttered in pure gallantry."

"Not at all, sir," cried Tom, falling on his knees, as a school boy
reads the wrong paragraph in the confusion of not having studied his
lesson well—"adorable and angelic—I beg your pardon, Mr.
Monson,"—rising, and again brushing his knees with some care—"my mind
is in such a state of confusion, that I scarcely know what I say."

"Really, I should think so, or you could never mistake me for a young
girl of twenty. Will you have the goodness to explain this matter to
me?"

"Yes, sir—I'm referred."

"Referred? Pray, what may that mean in particular?"

"Only, sir, that I'm referred—I do not ask a dollar, sir. Her lovely
mind and amiable person are all I seek, and I only regret that she is
so rich. I should be the happiest fellow in the world, Mr. Monson, if
the angelic Julia had not a cent."

"The angelic Julia must be infinitely indebted to you, Mr. Thurston;
but let us take up this affair in order. What am I to understand, sir,
by your being referred?"

"That Miss Julia, in answer to my suit, has referred me to you, sir."

"Then, so far as she herself is concerned, you wish me to understand
that she accepts you?"

"Certainly—she accepted, some time since, with as heavenly a 'yes' as
ever came from the ruby lips of love."

"Indeed! This is so new to me, sir, that you must permit me to see my
daughter a moment, ere I give a definite answer."

Hereupon Mr. Monson left the room, and Tom began to THINK again.

"Well," he thought, "things DO go on swimmingly at last. This is the
first time I could ever get at a father, though I've offered to
six-and-twenty girls. One does something like a living business with a
father. I don't know but I rather overdid it about the dollar, though
it's according to rule to seem disinterested at first, even if you
quarrel like furies, afterwards, about the stuff. Let me see—had I
best begin to screw him up in this interview, or wait for the next? A
few hints, properly thrown out, may be useful at once. Some of these
old misers hold on to every thing till they die, fancying it a mighty
pleasant matter to chaps that can't support themselves to support THEIR
daughters by industry, as they call it. I'm as industrious as a young
fellow can be, and I owe six months' board, at this very moment.
No—no—I'll walk into him at once, and give him what Napoleon used to
call a demonstration."

The door opened, and Mr. Monson entered, his face a little flushed, and
his eye a little severe. Still he was calm in tone and manner. Julia
had told him all in ten words.

"Now, Mr. Thurston, I believe I understand this matter," said the
father, in a very business-like manner; "you wish to marry my daughter?"

"Exactly, sir; and she wishes to marry me—that is, as far as comports
with the delicacy of the female bosom."

"A very timely reservation. And you are referred?"

"Yes, Mr. Monson, those cheering words have solaced my ears—I am
referred. The old chap," aside, "likes a little humbug, as well as a
girl."

"And you will take her without a cent, you say?"

"Did I, sir? I believe I didn't exactly say that—DOLLAR was the word I
mentioned. CENTS could hardly be named between you and me."

"Dollar let it be, then. Now, sir, you have my consent on a single
condition."

"Name it, sir. Name five or six, at once, my dear Mr. Monson, and you
shall see how I will comply."

"One will answer. How much fortune do you think will be necessary to
make such a couple happy, at starting in the world? Name such a sum as
will comport with your own ideas."

"How much, sir? Mr. Monson, you are a model of generosity! You mean, to
keep a liberal and gentlemanly establishment, as would become your
son-in-law?"

"I do—such a fortune as will make you both easy and comfortable."

"Horses and carriages, of course? Every thing on a genteel and liberal
scale?"

"On such a scale as will insure the happiness of man and wife."

"Mutual esteem—conjugal felicity—and all that. I suppose you include
dinners, sir, and a manly competition with one's fellow citizens, in
real New York form?"

"I mean all that can properly belong to the expenses of a gentleman and
lady."

"Yes, sir—exceedingly liberal—liberal as the rosy dawn. Why, sir,
meeting your proposition in the spirit in which it is offered, I should
say Julia and I could get along very comfortably on $100,000. Yes, we
could make that do, provided the money were well invested—no fancy
stocks."

"Well, sir, I am glad we understand each other so clearly. If my
daughter really wish to marry you, I will give $50,000 of this sum, as
soon as you can show me that you have as much more to invest along with
it."

"Sir—Mr. Monson!"

"I mean that each party shall lay down dollar for dollar!"

"I understand what you mean, sir. Mr. Monson, that would be degrading
lawful wedlock to the level of a bet—a game of cards—a mercenary,
contemptible bargain. No, sir—nothing shall ever induce me to degrade
this honorable estate to such pitiful conditions!"

"Dollar for dollar, Mr. Thurston!"

"Holy wedlock! It is violating the best principles of our nature."

"Give and take!"

"Leveling the sacred condition of matrimony to that of a mere bargain
for a horse or a dog!"

"Half and half!"

"My nature revolts at such profanation, sir—I will take $75,000 with
Miss Julia, and say no more about it."

"Equality is the foundation of wedded happiness, Mr. Thurston."

"Say $50,000, Mr. Monson, and have no more words about it. Take away
from the transaction the character of a bargain, and even $40,000 will
do."

"Not a cent that is not covered by a cent of your own."

"Then, sir, I wash my hands of the whole affair. If the young lady
should die, my conscience will be clear. It shall never be said Thomas
Thurston was so lost to himself as to bargain for a wife."

"We must, then, part, and the negotiation must fall through."

Tom rose with dignity, and got as far as the door. With his hand on the
latch, he added—

"Rather than blight the prospects of so pure and lovely a creature I
will make every sacrifice short of honor—let it be $30,000, Mr.
Monson?"

"As you please, sir—so that it be covered by $30,000 of your own."

"My nature revolts at the proposition, and so—good morning, sir."

Tom left the house, and Mr. Monson laughed heartily; so heartily,
indeed, as to prove how much he relished the success of his scheme.

"Talk of Scylla and Charybdis!" soliloquized the discomfited Tom, as he
wiped the perspiration from his face—"Where the d—l does he think I
am to find the $50,000 he wants, unless he first gives them to me? I
never heard of so unreasonable an old chap! Here is a young fellow that
offers to marry his daughter for $30,000—half price, as one may
say—and he talks about covering every cent he lays down with one of my
own. I never knew what was meant by cent. per cent. before. Let me see;
I've just thirty-two dollars and sixty-nine cents, and had we played at
a game of coppers, I couldn't have held out half an hour. But, I
flatter myself, I touched the old scamp up with morals, in a way he
wasn't used to. Well, as this thing is over, I will try old Sweet, the
grocer's daughter. If the wardrobe and whiskers fail there, I must rub
up the Greek and Latin, and shift the ground to Boston. They say a chap
with a little of the classics can get $30 or 40,000, there, any day in
the week. I wish my parents had brought me up a schoolmaster; I would
be off in the first boat. Blast it!—I thought when I came down to
$30,000, he would have snapped at the bait, like a pike. He'll never
have a chance to get her off so cheap, again."

{cent. per cent. = one hundred percent}

This ended the passage of flirtation between Thomas Thurston and Julia
Monson. As for the latter, she took such a distaste for me, that she
presented me to Mademoiselle Hennequin, at the first opportunity, under
the pretence that she had discovered a strong wish in the latter to
possess me.

Adrienne accepted the present with some reluctance, on account of the
price that had been paid for me, and yet with strong emotion. How she
wept over me, the first time we were alone together! I thought her
heart would break; nor am I certain it would not, but for the timely
interposition of Julia, who came and set her laughing by a humorous
narrative of what had occurred between her father and her lover.

That night the rout took place. It went off with eclat, but I did not
make my appearance at it, Adrienne rightly judging that I was not a
proper companion for one in her situation. It is true, this is not a
very American notion, EVERY thing being suitable for EVERY body, that
get them, in this land of liberty, but Adrienne had not been educated
in a land of liberty, and fancied that her dress should bear some
relation to her means. Little did she know that I was a sort of patent
of nobility, and that by exhibiting me, she might have excited envy,
even in an alderman's daughter. My non-appearance, however, made no
difference with Betts Shoreham, whose attentions throughout the evening
were so marked as to raise suspicion of the truth in the mind of even
Mrs. Monson.

{rout = evening party; eclat = brilliance}

The next day there was an eclaircissement. Adrienne owned who she was,
gave my history, acquainted Mrs. Monson with her connection with Mr.
Shoreham, and confessed the nature of his suit. I was present at this
interview, and it would be unjust to say that the mother was not
disappointed. Still she behaved generously, and like a high principled
woman. Adrienne was advised to accept Betts, and her scruples, on the
score of money, were gradually removed, by Mrs. Monson's arguments.

{eclaircissement = explanation}

"What a contrast do this Mr. Thurston and Adrienne present!" observed
Mrs. Monson to her husband, in a tete a tete, shortly after this
interview. "Here is the gentleman wanting to get our child, without a
shilling to bless himself with, and the poor girl refusing to marry the
man of her heart, because she is penniless."

"So much for education. We become mercenary or self-denying, very much
as we are instructed. In this country, it must be confessed,
fortune-hunting has made giant strides, within the last few years, and
that, too, with an audacity of pretension that is unrestrained by any
of the social barriers which exist elsewhere."

"Adrienne will marry Mr. Shoreham, I think. She loves; and when a girl
loves, her scruples of this nature are not invincible."

"Ay, HE can lay down dollar for dollar—I wish his fancy had run toward
Julia."

"It has not, and we can only regret it. Adrienne has half-consented,
and I shall give her a handsome wedding—for, married she must be in
our house."

All came to pass as was predicted. One month from that day, Betts
Shoreham and Adrienne de la Rocheaimard became man and wife. Mrs.
Monson gave a handsome entertainment, and a day or two later, the
bridegroom and bride took possession of their proper home. Of course I
removed with the rest of the family, and, by these means, had an
opportunity of becoming a near spectator of a honey-moon. I ought,
however, to say, that Betts insisted on Julia's receiving $125 for me,
accepting from Julia a handsome wedding present of equal value, but in
another form. This was done simply that Adrienne might say when I was
exhibited, that she had worked me herself, and that the lace with which
I was embellished was an heir-loom. If there are various ways of
quieting one's conscience, in the way of marriage settlements, so are
there various modes of appeasing our sense of pride.

Pocket-handkerchiefs have their revolutions, as well as states. I was
now under my first restoration, and perfectly happy; but, being French,
I look forward to further changes, since the temperament that has twice
ejected the Bourbons from their thrones will scarce leave me in quiet
possession of mine forever.

{first restoration = the Bourbon dynasty was restored to the French
throne in 1815, after the fall of Napoleon, only to be deposed again in
1830}

Adrienne loves Betts more than any thing else. Still she loves me
dearly. Scarce a week passes that I am not in her hands; and it is when
her present happiness seems to be overflowing, that she is most fond of
recalling the painful hours she experienced in making me what I am.
Then her tears flow freely, and often I am held in her soft little
hand, while she prays for the soul of her grandmother, or offers up
praises for her own existing blessings. I am no longer thought of for
balls and routs, but appear to be doomed to the closet, and those
moments of tender confidence that so often occur between these lovers.
I complain not. So far from it, never was an "article" of my character
more highly favored; passing an existence, as it might be, in the very
bosom of truth and innocence. Once only have I seen an old
acquaintance, in the person of Clara Caverly, since my change of
mistress—the idea of calling a de la Rocheaimard, a boss, or bossess,
is out of the question. Clara is a distant relative of Betts, and soon
became intimate with her new cousin. One day she saw me lying on a
table, and, after an examination, she exclaimed—

"Two things surprise me greatly here, Mrs. Shoreham—that YOU should
own one of these THINGS"—I confess I did not like the word—"and that
you should own this particular handkerchief."

"It is not like YOU to purchase so extravagant and useless a THING—and
then this looks like a handkerchief that once belonged to another
person—a poor girl who has lost her means of extravagance by the
change of the times. But, of course, it is only a resemblance, as YOU—"

"It is more, Clara—the handkerchief is the same. But that handkerchief
is not an article of dress with me; it is MY FRIEND!"

The reader may imagine how proud I felt! This was elevation for the
species, and gave a dignity to my position, with which I am infinitely
satisfied. Nevertheless, Miss Caverly manifested surprise.

"I will explain," continued Mrs. Shoreham. "The handkerchief is my own
work, and is very precious to me, on account des souvenirs."

{des souvenirs = of memories}

Adrienne then told the whole story, and I may say Clara Caverly became
my friend also. Yes, she, who had formerly regarded me with
indifference, or dislike, now kissed me, and wept over me, and in this
manner have I since passed from friend to friend, among all of
Adrienne's intimates.

Not so with the world, however. My sudden disappearance from it excited
quite as much sensation as my debut in it. Tom Thurston's addresses to
Miss Monson had excited the envy, and, of course, the attention of all
the other fortune-hunters in town, causing his sudden retreat to be
noticed. Persons of this class are celebrated for covering their
retreats skilfully. Tom declared that "the old chap broke down when
they got as far as the fortune—that, as he liked the girl, he would
have taken her with $75,000, but the highest offer he could get from
him was $30,000. This, of course, no gentleman could submit to. A girl
with such a pocket-handkerchief OUGHT to bring a clear $100,000, and I
was for none of your half-way doings. Old Monson is a humbug. The
handkerchief has disappeared, and, now they have taken down the SIGN, I
hope they will do business on a more reasonable scale."

A month later, Tom got married. I heard John Monson laughing over the
particulars one day in Betts Shoreham's library, where I am usually
kept, to my great delight, being exceedingly fond of books. The facts
were as follows. It seems Tom had cast an eye on the daughter of a
grocer of reputed wealth, who had attracted the attention of another
person of his own school. To get rid of a competitor, this person
pointed out to Tom a girl, whose father had been a butcher, but had
just retired from business, and was building himself a fine house
somewhere in Butcherland.

"That's your girl," said the treacherous adviser. "All butchers are
rich, and they never build until their pockets are so crammed as to
force them to it. They coin money, and spend nothing. Look how high
beef has been of late years; and then they live on the smell of their
own meats. This is your girl. Only court the old fellow, and you are
sure of half a million in the long run."

Tom was off on the instant. He did court the old fellow; got introduced
to the family; was a favorite from the first; offered in a fortnight,
was accepted, and got married within the month. Ten days afterward, the
supplies were stopped for want of funds, and the butcher failed. It
seems HE, too, was only taking a hand in the great game of brag that
most of the country had sat down to.

Tom was in a dilemma. He had married a butcher's daughter. After this,
every door in Broadway and Bond street was shut upon him. Instead of
stepping into society on his wife's shoulders, he was dragged out of it
by the skirts, through her agency. Then there was not a dollar. His
empty pockets were balanced by her empty pockets. The future offered a
sad perspective. Tom consulted a lawyer about a divorce, on the ground
of "false pretences." He was even ready to make an affidavit that he
had been slaughtered. But it would not do. The marriage was found to
stand all the usual tests, and Tom went to Texas.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Autobiography of a Pocket-Hankerchief, by
James Fenimore Cooper
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUTOBIOGRAPHY--POCKET HANDKERCHIEF ***
***** This file should be named 2329-h.htm or 2329-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/2/2329/
Produced by Hugh C. MacDougal. HTML version by Al Haines.
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.net/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.net),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
donations. To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
http://www.gutenberg.net
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.